


Tepid

by Cuptivate



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Broken Hearts, Dwalin Feels, Dwarven customs, Dwarven ones, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Happy Ending?, M/M, POV Thorin, Thorin Feels, after BoFA, couple problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-11-20 14:55:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuptivate/pseuds/Cuptivate
Summary: Thorin and Dwalin have known they are each other’s One for over a century. Their families know and the members of the Company have learned that well-kept secret, too. The two dwarves have overcome a lot in their life; surely the debacle of the gold sickness is only another bump in the road? In the end neither can be without the other. Or can they?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story explores what will happen if either One breaks the heart of the other.

“The engineers tha’ arrived from the Iron Hills yest’rday brought a letter from Onnhild. She yearns ta see her home again, but she understands tha’ I might not wish fer her ta come ta Erebor ta settle fer good. She writes tha’ I should let her know and if it’s a no from me she’ll wait a few more years ‘til the lad’s old enough ta stay with a friend of hers before she’ll come on her own fer a few weeks. Ta see her parent’s last resting place an’ visit the memories of her childhood.” Dwalin’s posture was straight and his voice even and measured but Thorin could see the deep shadows under the warrior’s eyes and the weariness in the lines of his face.

He was not fooled by his Kurdel’s pretence: Dwalin was rattled, thoroughly shaken, had been since their altercation in the throne room, just before the battle.

The King was, however, distracted by Balin’s sharp intake at his younger brother’s words. Clearly, Dwalin had never imparted the knowledge about a son to his Nadad, Thorin mused silently, a little bit pleased that what Dwalin had told him in secret nearly a decade ago was indeed still a secret, for certainly Thorin had told no-one.

Ignoring Balin’s reaction Dwalin said the very sentence Thorin was dreading: “I’ve told her tha’ they are both welcome in Erebor. Ta stay fer good.” His One did look into his eyes as he said it, but his body, his wonderfully big and strong body, tensed, and Thorin could see only now how tense his Kurdel already had been all along.

No, no, he must not call him that any more, not even in his mind! He had no right, had given it away in a moment of madness and not yet found a way to mend what he had broken.

_I am so sorry_ , he should say, should have said weeks, _months_ ago. Forgive me I beg you. I love you, you are my everything and I am so, so sorry for everything I’ve said and done in the days leading up to the battle but especially in that cursed moment. Please be angry no more. Please come back home. Please come back to _me_. I _miss_ you, I _need_ you.

“They will both be most welcome,” he said instead, his voice equally as even as Dwalin’ had been. It was all Thorin could bring himself to say without choking on his emotions.

If Dwalin had expected anything else or anything more it did not show on his face. He gave a respectful bow, turned on his heel and strode from Thorin’s study, the heavy door falling shut with a soft click. Thorin missed the times when he had to scold his Kurdel for slamming a door in his temper, invariably causing the doorjamb to splinter or the door itself to warp or the hinges to bend beyond repair.

For a while Balin gaped at the space where his brother stood mere moments ago. When the old advisor turned his head to look at Thorin the King studiously focused on the parchment with the text of the first treaty between Erebor and Dale from several centuries ago, ignoring the piercing glare from sharp, blue eyes, which - Thorin was certain - did not twinkle with their usual mirth just now.

Then Balin stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping on the polished stone floor, and ran out the door, after his younger brother.

Thorin sighed and dropped the parchment.

He had no mind for politics these days, not truly, he’d rather be spending time walking the halls of his reclaimed mountain and be useful in the physical side of the restoration. But firstly, there were enough dwarrow that could help in that regard and not enough to do the more erudite side of politics. And secondly, Thorin could not stomach walking the halls of Erebor on his own when every corridor, every hallway reminded him of _Dwalin_. Dwalin, who had been with him since they were dwarflings, both growing up in the Kingdom under Thrór. So many happy, carefree memories of laughter and silliness, of early successes in the training grounds and the forges, of late night shenanigans and daring pranks. Dwalin, who had been the only one to keep a check on a wild Frerin and an even wilder Dis, even though she had been truly young then. Dwalin, without whom Thorin would only remember the tediousness of royal education, the strenuousness of handling his father when he was in one of his moods, the precariousness of dealing with an increasingly irate Thrór.

Rubbing his throbbing temples Thorin carefully got to his feet, taking his time to find his balance; the stabbing wound in his foot had healed well but occasionally the foot was simply numb and gave him little support to hold his weight. He knew he should take more time to bathe the limb and do the exercises Óin had shown him, but the baths were just like any other thing: they reminded him of Dwalin and they were not a place he wanted to be without his Kurdel.

Pouring himself a generous goblet of bibil’urs from the blessedly undamaged barrels Bombur discovered in the cellars behind the vast kitchens Thorin sank into his chair in front of the fireplace with a groan. His shoulder hurt, too, as did his arm, where Azog had hacked at him and finally pierced him with that blade embedded in his cursed flesh. Thorin had been sure his final moments in Arda had come but he was determined not to go out without taking the Defiler with him.

He had succeeded.

Just.

Now he could claim an increase in his fame as warrior - if Ori was to be believed - for having fought the white orc again and finally besting him as well as for having reclaimed Erebor. He was a hero, from pauper King-in-Exile with little to his name (apart from a long line of more or less illustrious ancestors) and barely a decent change of clothes to the richest person in all of Arda, King of a proud people that finally had a proper, safe home to call their own once more.

A hero.

_‘Unhabul’ukhzad._

That’s what the dwarrow named him when they called out as he passed them. It was all very grand, of course, and Thorin knew that he had indeed achieved the unachievable, that he had turned what was little more than a suicide mission into a story of legends.

But he also knew that this story of legends would not have happened without twelve others, the only ones that had come when he called for aid amongst his kin. It would not have happened had not a wizard meddled beyond what was good and decent - but who cared about such things after, when all had gone well? And it would not have happened had not a hobbit of the Shire left his own cozy home to help a group of dwarves - that had treated him with little kindness for months - to regain their own.

Against a dragon no less.

Thorin knew well he owed Bilbo everything. The quest would have failed nearly half a dozen times without the hobbit. The dwarrow of Erebor owed him a depth that could never really be repaid, certainly not in gold and silver, not in gems and jewels. There was not enough treasure in the mountain for that and above all: it meant nothing to Bilbo Baggins, who had left Erebor with no more than a small chest filled with coins, warm clothes, a generous assortment of handkerchiefs and plenty of well-wishes not ten days ago.

Thanks to Bilbo’s tireless efforts Thorin and both his nephews had not died of boredom in the long months of their healing, nor had they been strangled by Óin and his fellow healers for being the most impatient and troublesome patients of their careers. Thanks to Bilbo what limited food they had was as tasty as could be and thanks to him the relationship with both Elves and Men was reasonably good. Thorin would never be friends with Thranduil, but he would agree to call their dealings equitable. And Bard, well, since Bard knew nothing of ruling and had his own problems to deal with on a daily basis the new King of Dale seemed to have come to understand that ruling was far more involved than simply ordering people to do what one wanted to have done. Thorin would judge their relationship as amicable, Bard often asking for advice on how to handle one matter or another, and Thorin readily giving his view on things.

While Dain and most of his host had returned to the Iron Hills before the winter set in, a good fourscore of his soldiers had remained in Erebor, wanting to make it their home and very willing to put in the hard work it took to make the mountain habitable once more. While Thorin and his nephews still languished in the Healing Ward the other members of the Company were busy taking the lead, and once Thorin emerged limping through the hallways he couldn’t believe the amount of work they had achieved.

He was proud of his people. Khazâd were known to be resilient and strong in the face of adversity, but  nobody ever praised how they could apply themselves to hard work. Of course, knowing that their families from the Iron Hills and the majority of their people from Ered Luin were due to arrive with various caravans over the coming months was as good as an incentive as any to spend every waking hour making the mountain a home once more.

Thorin knew that, while all worked hard, few would have worked as hard as Dwalin. The warrior, with his knowledge of shifts and guard rotations was the one to appoint work crews their tasks and kept a general overview on matters, including everyone’s safety and the security of the mountain and it’s few inhabitants. Thorin knew that his Kurdel spend a lot of time with Fili and Kili, ever generous with his time and care for others but especially them, and that it was Dwalin who began the first recovery exercises with both lads; with Fili to get him used to having only one eye and with Kili to increase the flexibility of his badly injured leg once more.

In one of Balin’s reports Thorin had read that it was Dwalin who forged large sections of the great gate so they could be closed over winter. In one of Glóin’s reports Thorin had read that Dwalin spent a great deal of time in the treasury, helping to sort the endless amount of coins, gems and precious artifacts. There were no reports from the other members of the Company but if there were Thorin had no doubt his Kurdel’s name would be mentioned in them just the same.

_Dwalin_.

Thorin really had to stop calling him Kurdel in his head, as long as this mess was between them.

Deep in thought Thorin startled when Balin came back into the room, uncharacteristically stomping and not closing the door gently behind him, but slamming it shut. Inwardly sighing he prepared himself for a barrage of questions and accusations, but he was not prepared when his Advisor and friend since before the calamity of Azanulbizar walked in front of him, blocking the view to the fire place and glaring at him with his hands on his hips. Thorin looked up to meet his eyes, only to swallow hard at the livid anger visible in the old dwarf’s face.

“Yet again I have tried to speak with my brother, quite in vain,” Balin snarled and pulled on his beard in frustration. “Immediately after the battle and when first you woke from your fever Dwalin was by your side constantly and that lead me to believe that you both had sorted out whatever happened between you just before the battle. Over the past months I came to see that I was sorely mistaken: my brother does not speak to anyone about anything that is not work related. He barely sleeps, he barely eats. He avoids you like the plague. Now there is mention of Onnhild and a lad? Onnhild, daughter of Gnan and Onneleid? Am I to understand my brother has sired a pebble? How?”

Thorin allowed himself to chuckle mirthlessly. “Well, Balin, I certainly had not thought I need to explain the workings of procreation to such a learned dwarf as yourself-“

“Thorin!” Balin shouted and Thorin’s mood soured even more.

“It is between him and me and none of your business,” Thorin responded scathingly.

“It is my business,” Balin countered with unexpected bite. “He is my brother, and he is falling apart before my very eyes. Because of something you did. I have a right to know. I _demand_ to know!”

They stared at each other for a small battle of wills, then Thorin relented and waved an impatient hand at the chair next to him.

Balin sat down with a huff, facing the fire, but remained taut as a bow string.

“I’ll not speak about what happened between Dwalin and I and even if it is truly not my place to tell you about Onnhild I feel that since Dwalin has decided they should come here you’ll find out anyway,” Thorin decided eventually. “Yes, it is Onnhild, daughter of Gnan and Onneleid. You remember twelve years ago, when Dwalin returned from the miserable caravan job from Gabilzahar to the Iron Hills?”

“Aye, I remember,” Balin nodded immediately. “He was wroth with you for appointing those two muppets for Generals over his head and against his advice and left Ered Luin frustrated and disappointed and did not come back for two years.”

Thorin scowled. He had been right to appoint those two Generals, they were worthy warriors, had fought bravely at Azanulbizar and they were willing to move their wealth and their families from the Iron Hills to Ered Luin. Their money brought new trade, their wives enriched the social circles and their children brought an expanse of horizon, all things they could only benefit from. Dwalin’s reasons for voting against them, favouring some lower status Commanders instead were based on bias only, for as Captain of the Guard he had trained them himself since they were recruits. Dwalin’s candidates were good warriors, too, Thorin had never doubted that, but they did not have wealth and they did not have families. Aye, Dwalin had been wroth, his grey eyes nearly black with hurt, followed by an outburst of his legendary temper which had led to one of the biggest rows they ever had. The warrior had left Ered Luin the next day.

“Onnhild has lived in the Iron Hills since Smaug desolated Erebor. Her parents have perished in the mountain, but she had her Amad’s family in the Hills who took her in. Dwalin said he hadn’t seen her in decades, but they had met on that caravan, where she was hired as a guard as well. Dwalin told me she had lost her One just the year before. The journey to Gabilzahar was hard, as we know. They had to fight in several draining skirmishes against orcs and they struggled against adverse weather as well, in the end losing more lives to cold and blizzards than mortal foes. Dwalin and Onnhild joined as shamurâl, for warmth and companionship both. He was back not six months when he showed me a letter from Onnhild.” Thorin remembered that day well. Dwalin’s face had blanched when he read it. Then he walked out and only came back several hours later, skin cold and snowflakes melting in his beard. “She wrote that if Mahal was having a sense of humour it sure was a queer one. All the years with her One she did not conceive, and one night with a shamurâl saw her forge lit, at a time where she could be considered almost too old to have a pebble. She wrote she expected nothing of Dwalin, as she knew he had a One. She wrote if all went well and she bore a healthy pebble he was welcome to visit or have any kind of contact he wished. Or not. That she wished him well. That she held no grudges. That it was bittersweet to think the spark for life she thought lost when her One died would be ignited by a pebble from the very dwarf she had known since she was pebble herself.”

“Did he write back to her?”

“As to that I have no knowledge,” Thorin said gravely, “I told him back then I’ll support him in whatever way he deemed suitable. I hold to that now.”

“Which is why you have extended your welcome to Onnhild and her lad,” Balin nodded in understanding, his face soft. But then his expression hardened and he turned his scrutinizing glare at Thorin once more. “What has happened between you and Dwalin before the battle? Because Thorin, whatever it was it is eating at my brother. I know well his temper is fierce and he can hold on to a grudge as good as the next dwarf, but it has been many months and you two are still at odds. Why?”

Thorin shrugged before straightening himself with a frown. “Dwalin has not yet forgiven me for something I have done. It was a grievous offence and it is understandable that it will take some time.” Much of the conversation in the throne room was hazy, but the fragments Thorin did remember were not something he would impart on Balin. Besides, Dwalin had ever been forgiving of Thorin’s follies, for all his hard exterior and affinity for physical confrontation he was a gentle dwarf who craved harmony in his private life. Thorin was sure that he would come around eventually.

Balin looked at him as if he had spoken to him in Elfish. “Mahal knows that apologizing for a wrongdoing is not your greatest talent, but in this I fear that Dwalin might not ever forgive you if you do not seek him out and ask, no _beg_ for his forgiveness. Dwalin has ever been getting along well with Onnhild when they were young, and he will love his pebble, even if he does not formally acknowledge him. Thorin, you may be running out of time.”

With a snort Thorin shook his head. “Don’t be absurd. Dwalin is my Kurdel, my One, Mahal has made ours souls for each other. We’ll never be apart. It is just ... I have not managed to pin him down. And ... everyone is rather ... busy at the moment.” Thorin felt like he pointed out what he was certain was the obvious, and turned his attention to his drink.

That bibil’urs was really quite potent.

“And we’ll continue to be busy for the rest of our lives, Thorin,” Balin pointed out with much disdain. “That is not an excuse. Precisely because Dwalin is your Kurdel, your heart, your mate, just as you are his, you must try to mend what has been broken. _Before_ Onnhild gets here.”

Firmly shaking his head once more Thorin clambered to his feet. “No. Not yet. Dwalin is still too angry with me. He needs his space.” He slowly got his balance and put weight on his sore foot.

“I am not sure it’s just anger Dwalin is feeling,” Balin put in with a frown.

“I know him. It is too early still. But I’ll speak to him soon.” Maybe once Onnhild was here Dwalin would be more approachable.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin stood on a high balcony overseeing the Great Entrance Hall three weeks later when the next caravan from the Iron Hills arrived. Although winter was truly over the early spring winds still had some bite. The King pulled his royal-blue fur-lined coat closer around his body. He was constantly cold these days, inside and out. The warmth that poured into Thorin at every loving look from those grey eyes was missing just as Dwalin’s heat was missing in the bed beside him at night.

 _Still_ missing.

No, Thorin had not yet spoken to his Kurdel. Dwalin.

He _had_ made a few plans, playing out conversations in his head, things he _could_ say when he managed to get Dwalin alone, but even he had to admit those plans were halfhearted at best. That and Dwalin continued to do very well avoiding ending up anywhere with Thorin alone, even though he had been sitting in on several meetings with Thranduil and Bard recently, when they had to discuss dealing with a few lose bands of orcs. Those sporadic remnants of the enemy’s army had to be dealt with swiftly, before the numbers of caravans would increase and bring not only seasoned warriors and dwarrow that knew how to handle themselves, but also dwarrowdams and dwarflings, who were far more vulnerable. Dwalin was in his element of course, and a surge of pride went through Thorin at the sight of his Kurdel speaking so confidently, outlying plans and explaining necessary measures. Even though the warrior’s skin looked sallow and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He probably had lost weight, too, but it was hard to tell while he was wearing the fetching armour of an Ereborian elite soldier. Indeed, with his tattoos and brand new knuckledusters Dwalin was a very desirable dwarf, the epitome of a Khazâd warrior. Thorin longed to weave his fingers through his Kurdel’s thick beard and drag him to bed.

But, alas, it was not to happen.

Not yet.

Because Dwalin was obviously still angry with him and needed his space. It was not the first incident where it took some time to reconcile after an argument, certainly not, both of them hotheaded and temperamental with a proclivity to brood after an altercation instead of using their words to make up and to stew in their anger instead of forgiving each other swiftly and completely.

But what couple didn’t have those sorts of issues?

Thorin knew none.

Certainly his grandfather and his grandmother - when she still lived - had arguments that were the stuff of legend, to the point of fierce bouts in the private royal sparring ring to work off their tempers. His father and mother contained their arguments to their bedroom but that did not stop everyone living in the Royal Wing hearing their shouting matches through the closed doors. Víli also was often on the receiving end of Dís’ fierce temper and only the fact that Víli enjoyed laughing more than fighting with his wife ended those arguments usually rather quickly, even though Víli died when they were still very young and practically considered newlyweds. Their relationship may well have been different had they been together for as long as Dwalin and Thorin were.

And arguing certainly didn’t change the fact that Thorin _loved_ Dwalin, why would it? Glóin loved his wife passionately, everyone knew that, yet their arguments tended to nearly bring the mountain slopes down on their settlement in Ered Luin. Even so Thorin couldn’t deny to himself that it began to rankle a bit that his Kurdel seemed to be making it so _difficult_.

Yes, he had done wrong in the throne room, threatening your One with a weapon was inexcusable, but Thorin had been _not himself_ and surely Dwalin knew that he’d never act in such a way when of sound mind _._ The dragon sickness clouded all sense and all sensibilities, took away every ounce of decency and honour.

Dwalin _knew_ that, he knew what Thrór had been like. Even with the lapses of memory Thorin still struggled with he was sure he had been no _different_ than his grandfather. Why could Dwalin not see past it all and acknowledge that Thorin had shaken the madness off on his own accord, throwing himself into the battle like a dwarf possessed, determined to right the wrongs he did in the days and hours prior? And did he not succeed? Ending Azog, surviving his grievous wounds, mending the rift with the Elves and the Men. He had wronged them, too, and they were happy enough to move forward. Same with Bilbo Baggins, whom he wronged severely when he held him over the parapets, threatening his life. He had apologized to Bilbo and the hobbit had accepted. Simple enough. It did not diminish the wrongdoing of Thorin’s actions, true, but it closed the case. Why could Dwalin not do the same? It was almost as if he _enjoyed_ letting Thorin simmer.

Well, two could play that game.

Thorin blinked and glared at the sun that was now peeking out from behind a dark cloud, before shifting so that he was behind another column. The bibil’urs was strong enough to give him reasonably good sleep but it also tended to give him a mighty headache. Well, since Thorin could not have one without the other he was willing to deal with the headache. The sun didn’t shine in the mountain after all.

And he had only come to the Gates to witness Onnhild’s arrival.

 _Onnhild_.

Thorin remembered her vaguely from when she was a pebble. Her Amad had been a Master Gemcutter, and a friend of Thorin’s Amad. While Thorin was already old enough to be out of the nursery of Erebor’s Pebble Care Ward, Onnhild and Dwalin had been born only a few months apart and their cots had been next to each other for the first years of their lives. Later, when Onnhild was a damling she was one of the older playmates of his sister, but before long she joined the recruit trainees, same as Dwalin, spending more time in the training grounds than at the school desk.

Thorin had never truly considered her a _dam_ per say, even though of course she was one, but even amongst the female warriors Onnhild was particularly stocky and squat, with little discernible female physical attributes and no interest whatsoever in pretty dresses and precious trinkets. In all honesty Thorin could not remember ever having spoken to her after those early years in the Pebble Care Ward, and he was certain he’d neither seen her nor heard about her in all the years after. He’d even be hard-pressed to picture her face. Her hair and beard had been ... a deep copper brown? Or was it an ash blonde? He could not say.

It certainly was different to Dwalin’s thick dark strands, he remembered that much. Dwalin’s hair looked stiff and wiry but Thorin knew it was soft and smooth, and perfect to hold on to. It would be interesting to see if the pebble had his Amad’s hair or Dwalin’s. Thorin might not remember much of Onnhild but he did remember what Dwalin had looked like as a pebble: chubby and chunky and _always_ hungry, with thick hair, already then.

That thought made Thorin frown.

It was not right that Mahal should grant a pebble to Onnhild when the Sire had a One. For had Mahal not also split one soul in two and gave each half to a separate body, Dwalin’s and Thorin’s? Surely being One meant more than siring a pebble, no matter how precious and special pebbles were?

Even though Thorin had never said his vows to Dwalin, always insisting in keeping their relationship private.

First because the long war against the orcs was no place for romance. It didn’t seem to matter much then either. They were together all the time anyway and did not miss out on closeness: it was considered normal and accepted for shamurâl during times of war to share in physical intimacy. After the war the Nobles in Ered Luin were pushing Thorin to find a wife and produce heirs, they would have reacted most prickly about their King-in-Exile binding himself to someone who could not give him any, naturally - whether they were Ones or not. The pressure became less when Dís married and had Fíli and Kíli in short succession, which was considered a blessing of Mahal. But then Víli died and all that talk about ‘blessing’ turned into frowned whispers yet again and Thorin wanted to deny anyone the chance to find any more arguments against his family.

Dwalin always had said he didn’t mind. He was _happy_ when Thorin gave him the tiny bead, declaring his Devotion and his Intent to one day be making the vows to his One. It didn’t matter to his Kurdel that he had to wear that bead on a thin chain around his neck instead of displaying it openly in his beard, he _always_ said so. When Dwalin stopped going on caravans and took over the position of Guard Captain in Ered Luin there were some grumbling about Thorin giving preferential treatment to his shamurâl, no matter he was a veteran warrior and Master of Warcraft, with more skill in his little finger than anyone else in Ered Luin had in both hands, including Thorin. But Dwalin had been away for many years, earning money for Dís and the lads when Thorin could not leave, and some said Dwalin had not earned the position as he had not worked himself up from the bottom. Had they known Dwalin was more to Thorin the tongues would have been wagging even wilder.

So Thorin said nothing.

And Dwalin _said_ he didn’t mind remaining in the shadow, sneaking in and out of their bedroom so even the lads didn’t know about them until they were old enough to keep a secret.

Thorin knew it was not right, that it had been hard on Dwalin, no matter what he said, but had it not been hard on Thorin just the same?

Sacrifice.

It was one of the things one had to do when one was King.

The people came first. Always.

Dwalin, who’d be Royal Consort and as such second in command after the King, knew that as well, _surely._

And keeping their relationship a secret did not mean Thorin did sacrifice their happiness as a couple to his people. It did _not_. Because they _were_ happy. Years and years of happiness. They shared a deep set love, a great passion, very much enjoying the physical side of that passion. Nothing gave Thorin more comfort than falling asleep in his Kurdel’s arms and waking up by his side the following morning. They had been _happy_.

True, Dwalin made it hard sometimes when he was angry. Because even their arguments had to be done in secret, and while Thorin liked to give voice to his anger with cutting words Dwalin liked to vent in bellows. But he couldn’t. Which meant they mostly growled their vexations at each other with bated breath before one or the other marched out, slamming the door - more often Dwalin than not - followed by a time of cooling-off for which Dwalin needed his space, Thorin knew. Only once Thorin had followed his Kurdel into the forge, many years ago, interrupting Dwalin beating the living daylights out of a piece of glowing iron with his hammer. That had been a mistake and Thorin had learned from it. He’d not come near his Kurdel unless Dwalin sent some sort of sign he was ready to talk. That had always meant Dwalin would come back into their bed. Just sliding under the covers in the dead of night, days or weeks after their argument. They usually ended up in a passionate tangle of limbs, utterly spent and with the bed a mess. And they were good again.

Thorin did not see how this time should be any _different_.

So when his eyes fell on the bald head of the tall warrior amongst the crowd down at the Great Entrance Hall he watched with mixed emotions as his Kurdel in his meticulously polished uniform made his way to a cluster of dams that stood near one of the newly arrived wagons. Most of the other wagons were swiftly unloaded and people began searching for their loved ones. At this particular wagon though a few warriors in the Iron Hills’ armour were around and one by one dwarflings were handed through the wagon’s open hatch and into the waiting hands of their Amads. There were happy family reunions with some of Dain’s soldiers that had stayed back in Erebor and helped with the initial clean-up but a few dams stood by themselves, taking in the hall with wide eyes, many clearly overcome by their emotions. Likely surviving daughters, sisters, cousins or aunties of the calamity that was Smaug, having lost their families during the mad scramble from the mountain after the worm’s attack. Thorin felt their grief; every survivor of that day knew that pain.

The warrior that had handed the dwarflings out the wagon’s hatch seemed to belong to that latter group, standing straight and still, eyes darting up the high ancient walls, taking in polished floors and intricately carved patterns. A tentative hand touched the green stone of the nearby pillar. Only when Thorin noticed the dwarfling clutching to the warrior’s knee and Dwalin making a beeline over he understood: Onnhild.

Even from the distance Thorin could see the wealth of her dark amber hair contained in a thick half-braid up high on her head, with smaller braids keeping the sides in place before spilling down her back freely.

She was not tall, he noted when Dwalin was before her, the top of her head barely reaching up to his Kurdel’s chin.

“You should be down there.”

Thorin did _not_ startle, because of course, being a warrior, he knew that his nephew had come up beside him, leaning against the balustrade and looking down into the hall.

When Thorin didn’t respond Fíli turned and faced him. “You should be down there,” he said again, as if he hadn’t already, trying to prompt a response.

 _Fine_. Thorin was going to indulge him. “It is not my place.” It wasn’t. His Kurdel, who wasn’t speaking to him, was busy greeting a dam he made a pebble with. Thorin very much doubted either of them wanted _him_ there.

Even without looking he knew Fíli was rolling his remaining eye. “You are the King,” he stated, “You should be down there to great your people. They are coming home.”

Thorin jolted internally, only now remembering that his heir knew nothing about Onnhild. Buying time he scratched his itching beard. He had decided, after nearly a century of keeping it short in penance of the losses of Azanulbizar, that he would let it grow once more. Thorin hadn’t quite admitted to himself that he decided it partially because he knew Dwalin had missed being able to run his hands through the thick beard of his One.

“They are,” he said gravely, leaning in to touch his forehead to Fíli’s affectionately. “And at this moment they’ll need some privacy. All that needs saying to welcome them will be said tonight in the Great Hall.” They did welcome speeches in the Great Hall once every week or so, due to the influx of dwarrow coming to Erebor, when Thorin would also leave his seat at the High Table and mingle with his people, exchanging words with as many as he could. Luckily, Fíli seemed to be placated by this, giving his uncle’s shoulder a squeeze and making his way down the hallway, his gait slow and measured to help him cope with his limited peripheral perception.

Looking back down into the Entrance Hall Thorin watched as his Kurdel and the dam greeted each other with clasped forearms. Only at the last moment Dwalin leaned in and tapped his forehead against Onnhild’s. The dam’s body language was clearly apprehensive, but then he said something, a large hand on her shoulder, and she relaxed.

Shifting a little, she tried to get the dwarfling clutching to her leg to come forward. The lad was obviously shy. Thorin could see no more than a heap of dark hair on the dwarfling’s head, but then Dwalin slowly went down on his knees, making himself physically smaller and less intimidating. Thorin couldn’t help but smile into his beard. In all the years he had known his Kurdel pebbles and dwarflings never feared Dwalin, despite his size – that changed of course when they were older and had to face him in the training ring, although – strictly speaking – they were neither pebbles nor dwarflings anymore then. And Dwalin, Dwalin loved all young ones in return. Of course, all Khazâd were fond of their young, maybe overly so, but Dwalin in particular turned into a sentimental puddle when faced with little ones.

However, remembering that _this_ dwarfling was not just any dwarfling Thorin’s smile swiftly soured.

Dwalin cocked his head this way and that, likely speaking softly - and didn’t Thorin know how soft and _sexy_ that gruff brogue could sound - and making every attempt to introduce himself to the lad. _His_ lad.

Unsurprising, it took not long and the dwarfling hesitantly reached out to place his small hand into Dwalin’s large palm. Squeezing it gently, Dwalin held it patiently for a fair while, before the dwarfling seemed to lose his shyness and stepped forward from his Amad’s leg and gave the warrior a tentative hug, before retreating back behind Onnhild’s stout form.

Dwalin’s smile was broad when he got to his feet, and Thorin’s gut turned to ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True Fact: Plato was all for child care already around 394 B.C., arguing that a system of child care would free woman to participate in society.


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin saw little of Dwalin in the coming weeks, and even less of Onnhild. He certainly never saw them together. When the dam was in the Meal Hall the warrior was nowhere to be seen, and when he broke his fast neither was she. It took Thorin a few weeks until it occurred to him that the one he did not see might always be with the dwarfling at that time. He hadn’t really seen the dwarfling either, apart from that first day at the gate, but of course he didn’t seek him out either.

Thorin knew he should make plans of how to approach Dwalin. Soon. But not yet. First Dwalin needed to settle down some more. The situation they found themselves in was rather unique, after all, and took some digesting. And Dwalin’s head was harder than bedrock, everyone knew _that_.

The few times Thorin was close to his Kurdel Dwalin didn’t look healthy. His skin was the colour of granite and it was obvious that the lack of a good night’s rest finally took a toll on him.

When the Company got together to share a meal in private and an ale or two Dwalin was always noticeable absent. The fact that his Kurdel, whose voracious appetite was legendary, deliberately missed these gatherings where food would be plenty, spoke volumes. Thorin could tell the others talked about it behind his back, but none approached him, which he appreciated. It was, after all, a private affair, and really none of their business, no matter what they had endured together.

Balin was the only one who didn’t shy back from voicing his opinion. “Thorin, we all know you have a tendency to brood over your mistakes instead of seeking a conversation to set them right, but I worry you’re taking much longer than you ought to this time, to mend things with my brother. I fear you might lose him for good.”

Thorin knew Balin meant well, but his advisor was exaggerating. “We are One, Dwalin and I, and nothing can keep us apart. At the moment we are estranged, it’s true. But it’s not the first time either, and you know how Dwalin is. He pulls away and retreats to lick his wounds. My Kurdel will be back in a little while, gladly returning into my arms.”

Balin looked doubtful and shook his head with a deep sigh, but he said no more.

When a list of newly appointed warriors for the recently formed Mountain and Royal Guards made it on his desk Thorin couldn’t possibly overlook Onnhild’s name amongst the first. A couple of times he got a glimpse of her near the Great Gate, when he returned from yet another meeting in Dale. Thorin didn’t doubt her qualifications, but he couldn’t deny that he was glad she was not one of his Royal Guards: he couldn’t have stomached seeing her in the Royal Wing or having her close by during his long days in the throne room.

It did hurt enough that Dwalin wasn’t there either: for decades his Kurdel had been a steady and comforting presence at his back, and his absence during tedious council meetings - with quick moments of passion in the short breaks - was drilling yet another most painful hole into Thorin’s heart.

To add more pain and upheaval to his continuously throbbing head Thorin ran into Onnhild’s lad just outside the kitchens the day before Dís’ return to Erebor. That is, he ran into _Dwalin_ , literally, lost in thought and not paying attention to where he was going as he turned a corner, nearly losing his balance when his sore foot didn’t quite manage to find its bearing quick enough. A strong arm reached out to steady him while simultaneously shoving the dwarfling behind muscly legs to keep him from being run over.

Mesmerized, Thorin found himself staring into wide dark grey eyes in a plump, round face with a big nose. Coarse, dark hair stood wild and high on the dwarfling’s head and the lad looked up at him with a scowl. He was so like Dwalin at that age, it was uncanny.

And thoroughly unsettling.

“Um, yer Majesty, where are yer guards?” Dwalin inquired in a quiet rumble, removing his hand from Thorin’s elbow and Thorin wanted to scream, about the loss of contact and the formality of the address, both.

Balling his fists to keep his composure he turned his gaze to his Kurdel, who looked terribly _tired_. “I’ve no need for them,” he explained curtly, “My way only took me from my private quarters to the kitchen. And now back. Feel free to accompany me, Shumrzbad, if you worry about my safety, but I am sure I’m quite capable to look after myself-”

Drinking in Dwalin’s pale features he meant to goad his One, of course, into a grin maybe, or even taking him up on his suggestion and accompanying him back to his private rooms. And inside. Possibly. Hopefully.

But, to his dismay, Dwalin was distracted halfway during Thorin’s speech by the dwarfling pulling on his hand. “Wha’ is it, hubrabur?” Dwalin’s attention was fully on the lad, not even waiting for Thorin to finish speaking, his voice the softest rumble. When the dwarfling pulled on the warrior’s hand once more he even leaned down to listen to the question whispered into his ear.

“Aye,” Dwalin chuckled, straightening up again. “Ye know how ta do it. Go on, don’t be afraid. His Majesty doesn’t bite an’ only growls a little.” The look the warrior shot him was both amused and undoubtedly a warning as well. Thorin’s brain lost all ability to think. Instead, he cut his eyes to the dwarfling, who extracted his small hand from the warrior’s and wobbly bowed deeply from the waist. “Onnwin, son of Onnhild, at yer service, Thorin Uzbad,” he chirped, eyes wide and expression awed.

Thorin found himself responding automatically. “Well met, Onnwin, son of Onnhild. I hope you like my mountain.”

It was not Thorin’s brightest remark ever, and he ignored Dwalin’s quirked eyebrow to focus on the eagerly nodding lad instead. “Tis much betta than ta Hills,” Onnwin said quietly, shuffling his feet a little, as if confessing something he shouldn’t be speaking about.

Thorin felt his mouth quirk into a little smile, both at the Iron Hill’s brogue and the words. Even though Dwalin was born in Erebor, his Amad had been from the Iron Hills and her manner of speech never changed in all her years in the Kingdom Under the Mountain. And it very much rubbed off on Dwalin, no matter how much old Fundin tried to instill the courtly speech in his Youngest. It very much appeared Dwalin’s son was no different in that regard. “Well, between you and me, I couldn’t agree more.” Straightening himself and wiping any emotion off his face Thorin briefly dipped his chin to the dwarfling and his Kurdel and made his departure. “Be safe, young Onnwin. Shumrzbad.”

As he walked away, a deep rumble and a chirp uniting in _‘unhabul’ukhzad_ behind him, Thorin’s head was spinning.

Once more he was more than glad about the potency of bibil’urs.

 

~*~

 

“Is there anything we can do?” Fili asked quietly the morning of Dís’ return to Erebor. Thorin and his nephews had come together in what would be the Durin Princesses rooms to give it a final look-over, making sure all was truly ready for its new occupant.

“Hm?” Trying to ignore his nephews’ concerned looks Thorin reached for Kíli’s hair to straighten his braids.

“About you and Dwalin,” Kíli clarified, a hint of impatience in his voice. “You’ve been dodging talking to anyone about it for months.”

“I am not dodging anything,” responded Thorin firmly, “And it is really none of your business.”

“No,” Fíli agreed softly, his one eye peering at Thorin with utter gravity. “It is not our business what is going on _between_ you and Dwalin. But it is our business what is going on _with_ you, and him. You are unhappy, uncle, and so is Dwalin. And we care about you both. After all we’ve been through and after all we’ve achieved neither of you should be so terribly sad.”

Thorin sighed. Of course his nephews would be worried. It was touching that they cared. He pulled them into a hug. They had matured so much this past year. “The mountain is reclaimed. Our people have a home once more. That is all that matters. And I am very proud of you.”

It warmed his chilled heart when they hugged him back.

“The mountain is not all that matters.” Of course Kíli couldn’t well leave it alone. “And you shouldn’t forget that we were there. Before the battle. We know what you were like. We might not know what exactly happened between you and Dwalin, but we can guess. And it is puzzling why you two have not managed to talk it out, have a good spar about it, drink together. Anything. Anything but this silence between you.”

“I am not the one keeping the silence,” Thorin snapped, responding far harsher than he meant to. The smiles slid of their faces and their expression turned wary. _They still are not quite sure how to speak to me, after the gold sickness._ Shaking his head regretfully Thorin pulled his nephews close again. “None of that now. Let’s go down and greet your Amad.”

Fíli nodded and gave him a small smile. But Kíli’s eyes remained narrowed. “Maybe Amad should give you and Dwalin a thorough talking to,” he said tersely, and slowly limped from the room.

Unfortunately, Thorin was rather certain that Dís would do exactly that. And he did not look forward to it.

The lad still had not quite calmed his temper when they stood outside the Great Gate a short while later, watching as the caravan was brought to a halt and Dís climbed off the first wagon and made her way to the group waiting for her. The Company was dressed in their finest, Glóin and Bombur itching to meet their own families. But first, the ceremonials needed to be dealt with.

“Welcome, Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór, to Erebor Reclaimed,” Thorin intoned loudly once the drums and fanfares had quieted. The assembled crowd cheered. He opened his arms. “Welcome home, Nan’ith.”

She fell into his embrace immediately, eyes wet and body shaking. They indulged in a moment of emotional reunion before she straightened and smiled gracefully, ever the princess. “Thank you Nadad,” she said and then she curtsied deeply, “Thank you, Thorin Uzbad. It is good to be home once more.” Thorin pulled her close and tapped his forehead to hers before letting her go.

Immediately she turned to her sons, hugging them both tightly. She had known, of course, about the extent of their injuries, but judging by the look she shot him now he was still in for a good lecture.

Extracting herself from Fíli and Kíli after a long moment the princess of Erebor continued down the line. Again she shot Thorin a look when it was Balin who stood next to Kíli, and not Dwalin. She hugged the old dwarf fondly, gently bumping foreheads with him. When she came to Dwalin she took a long look at him. “I’d have thought that, after all these years, I’d finally find you beside my brother, where you belong,” she said quietly, but not so quietly that Thorin and the Company couldn't hear. “Yet I’m glad to see you’ve waited for my arrival. Luckily, I’ve spent many hours of my journey planning your wedding.” Dís smiled and winked at Thorin before pulling Dwalin into an affectionate hug. “I promise you your patience was worth it. It will be quite the occasion.”

Dwalin said nothing, but took her face into his big hands gently and shook his head with a sad smile. Painfully aware that many eyes were on him Thorin made sure his face was unreadable as he watched his Kurdel tenderly kiss his sister’s forehead. There were undeniably tears in the warrior’s eyes and Dís looked positively startled at the sight. Her smile fell as her eyes darted from Balin, whose gaze was locked on his brother and his expression a picture of worry, to her sons, who looked solemn and stricken, to him.

Keeping his features stony it was Glóin who saved Thorin at that moment, interrupting Dís who was about to say something harsh that was clearly not fit for the ears of the public. “Welcome home, Uzbadnâtha. Let me hug you, so I can see to my family. I have missed them terribly, and all that needs saying can be said later.”

Dís visibly pulled herself together, letting go of Dwalin and continuing down the line to greet the remaining members of the Company. As soon as she was done with Bombur, who was last and immediately set off to welcome his wife and many children, Dwalin turned on his heels and marched back into the mountain, Dís’ eyes following him.

 

~*~

 

The rest of the day was spent showing Dís the rooms they had prepared for her, accompanying her around the mountain and making sure the dwarrow that had come with her from Ered Luin were settled and taken care of. They were not a moment alone, accompanied by Royal Guards and Fíli, Kíli or Balin, constantly surrounded by dwarrow of all walks of life who wanted a word with a member of the Royal family, who needed a word of encouragement as they shed a tear, feeling themselves overwhelmed being back in the Kingdom Under the Mountain. And all the time Thorin was well aware that he was living on borrowed time, for as soon as they would be alone Dís would start her verbal barrage.

But first was the feast, _thank Mahal_.

Dwalin, of course, was nowhere to be seen yet again, a fact that was well noticed by Dís. Thorin knew it would be unwise to drink himself into a stupor just yet - he needed his wherewithal when dealing with his sister - and he did manage to only sip from the rich wine in his goblet. Until the toasts began and the fourteenth or fifteenth toast was ‘to the King’s future and may his seed be strong and his future wife be well pleased with his endeavors’. Thorin did empty his goblet in one gulp then, to keep the vein above his eye from twitching, and another goblet for good measure immediately afterwards.

Therefore his head was buzzing pleasantly when finally Dís announced she wished to retire from the High Table and he dutifully accompanied her back to her rooms, followed by his nephews and Balin.

Because Thorin could feel Dís’ body almost vibrating with pent-up irritation and desire to know the truth about everything that had happened during the quest Thorin took it as a small mercy that she at least waited until the door fell shut behind them and they made their way fully into her sitting room before she turned around. “Now,” she said without further ado and indicated for them to sit down – which was as much an order as if she’d told them in a bellow, “I want to know everything.”

Balin, bless him, began with their meeting with Master Baggins in Bag End. That did liven the atmosphere a bit, Kíli and Fíli joining in and soon telling their first leg of the journey rather animatedly, with only a little embellishing. Dís sat, quietly and attentively listening without interrupting, although Thorin could see that she had an increasingly hard time to keeping her tongue in check. She managed though, from his foolish charge at Azog just before the Carrock all the way until Laketown. The lads slowly fell quiet and Balin took over again, but his retelling of that last part of the quest was so obviously only perfunctory that Dís would have to be deaf and blind not to pick up on it.

Thorin knew he could not withhold what had happened inside the mountain from her, so he told her about the gold sickness. He left nothing out, well _almost_ nothing. Balin finished their tale from the moment the Company had charged into the fray of the battle till the ultimate demise of Azog and subsequent victory of the allied armies. At the end Dís had tears in her eyes and went to hug her sons. But when she sat down again and had composed herself she turned her sharp eyes on Balin. “Your brother should be here.” It was all she said, but the weight behind her words was unmistakable.

The Royal Advisor sighed deeply and nodded, casting his King a dark look. “Aye, so he should, and I’d wish for nothing more. But alas, he is not.”

Dís’ eyes bore into Thorin. “What happened between the two of you? I have heard a lot about the quest now, and I’m well aware that plenty has been left out, about Master Baggins, about the Elves and Men. That’s alright though, for now, I’ll find out the missing parts later.”

Thorin could only feel sorry for those members of the Company Dís had selected in her mind to ‘question’ further. Fíli and Kíli squirmed in their seats, obviously aware that they were first on their mother’s list. “What is most puzzling however is that you, brother mine, have not once mentioned your Kurdel. Not gloated about his bravery, not gushed about his skills in battle, not spoken about his steadfast loyalty to you each time you were close to faltering. It is very unlike you for surely now your relationship with him does not longer have to be a secret and you can shout your love for him for all of Arda to hear. What has happened? Surely, the Dwalin I’ve known for all my life has not changed so much that he should be none of those things any longer?”

“Dwalin has ever been the rock of the Company,” Fíli was quick to assure her. “You know him, Amad, he does not rest to keep everyone as safe as they can be. Without his prowess we might well have failed in the goblin tunnels and he was first off the tree to help Thorin and Bilbo against Azog.”

“Aye.” Dís smiled fondly at her eldest. “I know Dwalin. Which is why it is rather incomprehensible that he is not _here_.”

“We know, of course, where he is,” Balin said quietly, casting a pensive look at Thorin. “Or rather, we can assume. I have not managed to pin my brother down since the battle, really. He is stonewalling every attempt to speak with him, rarely joins the Company and barely sets foot into the Great Hall at mealtimes.”

“So where, in Durin’s name, is he?”

“He’s probably with his son,” Thorin said and knew instantly that his voice was far too nonchalant for the gravity of the comment.

Sure enough, Dís nearly fell of her chair in her shock, whereas Fíli and Kíli shared meaningful looks and Balin looked at him with that same expression he used on wayward dwarflings when they didn’t complete a set task out of laziness and told him some harebrained excuse instead.

“His _son_?” Dís repeated in a splutter, eyes wide. She pressed a hand to her chest and Thorin absentmindedly thought about the stash of bibil’urs in his study.

“Aye,” Balin confirmed calmly, “Dwalin’s son.”

When, after another long moment, Dís took a deep breath and forcibly relaxed her shoulders Thorin found her piercing gaze on him once more. “Explain!”

Thorin, however, didn’t feel like talking about his Kurdel’s pebble, probably couldn’t have past the lump in his throat, and so chose to ignore her, morosely staring into empty space instead. Balin, of course, had no such compunction and briefly outlined how Dwalin had landed himself with that lad that seemed to take up so much of his time.

_Time he should be spending with me._

“Who else knows?” asked Dís in the silence that followed.

“Anyone who knew Dwalin as a pebble will know the lad is his. It’s impossible to miss. The lad, young Onnwin, is a good boy, his Amad has raised him well. She’s joined the Mountain Guard after she arrived from the Iron Hills and when she’s on duty it’s either an old aunt of hers who watches Onnwin, or Dwalin.”

“You have spoken to Onnhild?” Dís asked Balin.

The old dwarf shook his head. “I would love to, if only to greet her as an old acquaintance. I’ve often held her as a pebble after all, and knew her Amad well. But I feel it is not my place. Whilst Thorin has imparted on me the Sire of young Onnwin, officially I know nothing. My brother refuses to speak to me or anyone else about it, even though most of the Company have by now guessed the nature of Dwalin’s bond with the lad, even though most think Onnwin is the reason of the obvious estrangement between Thorin and my brother. Glóin, and certainly Óin have tried to get Dwalin to talk, concerned about his health. My brother does not sleep, and if he does he’s plagued by terrors. He barely eats and has lost more weight in the last few months than during the entire quest. He’s worked harder than anyone since the battle, giving his time and attention to everything and everyone, bar himself. It is not healthy, and I worry.”

“Surely Onnhild realizes this,” Dís said thoughtfully after a moment. “She knows the pain of losing her One and she was close to Dwalin when they were young; I’m not surprised they joined as shamurâl when fate brought them together again all those years later.” Thorin shot her a glare but she waved him off impatiently. “Dwalin’s loyalty to you has no bounds, but he is a good dwarf and he is very handsome. You should be glad he’s not joined with other warriors over the years.”

“He well could have,” Thorin said bitterly, torn between pride and disappointment about his sister’s assessment of his Kurdel. “Not that I would know.”

Dis shook her head and looked at him with something akin to pity. “Dwalin has never looked at anyone else but you, brother mine. But surely you must see that things were a bit different when he left Ered Luin after that debacle of those new Generals.”

Thorin surged to his feet. He was not in the mood to regurgitate that old argument. And he certainly would not accept that it was his _fault_ Dwalin sought out another's embrace, shumrâl or not. “It was my _right_ to make those appointments. Those dwarves were deserving.”

“As I have told you before, I disagree,” Dís said sternly, waving him off once more when he opened his mouth to argue. “And the point is not whether you were right to appoint those dwarves or not but whether Dwalin got tremendously hurt in the process. Frankly, to this day I am surprised he came back to Ered Luin at all.”

Thorin couldn’t believe his ears. “We are One,” he bit out tersely, “Where else should Dwalin be than _by my side?_ ”

His sister looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Dwalin has ripped himself to pieces many times to keep you whole, Thorin,” Dís replied sharply. “That is not how it should be between couples, whether they are Ones or not.” She sighed deeply. “You’ve treated him like no more than a friend and a bedmate for nearly a century, but not like your One. We all know you’re born with a core of steel, Thorin, and if anything, life has made you even harder. It’s not your fault, certainly not, but I wonder if it isn’t detrimental to your relationship with Dwalin. And the fact that you are a King doesn’t help. You’ve certainly never really given Dwalin’s voice the weight it deserved to have. It’s no wonder he’s resolved to put some of his focus on his son instead.”

“He’s _my_ One and should focus all his time on _me_ ,” Thorin bit out and he knew he sounded petulant.

Dis smiled sadly. “Have you not heard a word I just said? I know you love Dwalin, but I’m not sure you’ve ever truly valued him. I am certain though that if you don’t find it in yourself to bend that core of steel of yours at least a little you’ll lose your Kurdel for good, for he has always done far more for you than you have for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding ages for Dwarrow I usually go with divided by three compared to Men. Meaning young Onnwin at the tender dwarfling age of twelve would be like a four year old human boy. Four is a good age. They understand a lot, are reasonably independent and undeniably cute.
> 
> Shumrzbad – ‘shumr’ guard, ‘mahazbud’ command, ‘Zabad’ lord  
> Hubrabur - tiny ear (attention)  
> Uzbad - King  
> Nan’ith – sister that is young  
> Nadad - brother  
> Uzbadnâtha - princess


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Dwalin talk.

It took Thorin two days to get over the fallout of that evening, sticking to his study and avoiding light and people. He’d stormed from Dís’ room in a huff and she hadn’t spoken to him since. Thorin had no doubt however that she spoke to Dwalin, and likely Onnhild as well. And when the glares from the other members of the Company in his direction increased in their severity Thorin knew Dís had finished her interrogation with them as well.

He thought it almost ironic, that now that he truly was the King of his people, he had even less allies than before and no friends, not really. Sure, every single member of the Company would do what Thorin, _the King_ , would say in an instant, their loyalty was ever unwavering, but they’d not do anything just simply because they _liked_ him. Not even his nephews would, still eyeing him wearily for signs of the gold-sickness returning and struggling with their own issues. The only person who had ever done anything for Thorin, _the dwarf_ , was Dwalin. Who’d bring him fresh blackberries because he’d happen to stumble upon a bramble while out hunting. Who’d wrap him in a new fur he made from the latest warg kill. Who’d wake him in the middle of the night because he managed to beg fresh sweet buns from the baker and wanted to share them. Who’d massage his neck and shoulders because he knew Thorin was full of knots without ever needing to be told.

Thinking long and hard Thorin came to the conclusion that Dís may be right in that he had to be the one bending his core of steel a little - even if he did not agree with any of her other points. Ones were meant to be together; their soul was made by Mahal himself and placed in two separate bodies. It made no sense to Thorin to be _just friends_ with the person who was the other half of himself.

Once Thorin put his mind to it finding Dwalin turned out to be a lot easier than expected.

Thorin watched his Kurdel working in the Fundin private forge for some time, staying in the shadows by the door. Dwalin preferred to wear a tight tunic with no arms when working near a furnace, and it suited him exceedingly well. The heavy muscles in his thick arms danced in time to the beats of the hammer battering away on a glowing piece of iron; a sword by the looks of it.

As he watched the grim expression on his pale Kurdel’s face apprehension coiled in Thorin’s gut.

“Yer gonna say anythin’ or yer just gonna stay there in silence?” Dwalin’s gruff voice broke Thorin’s revere. Thrusting the glowing sword into the quench bucket the warrior turned around and eyed him with a scowl.

“Since your mind is set on letting me simmer I’ve decided to take the first step for once,” Thorin retorted calmly, determined to resolve their issues amicably, once and for all, giving his voice a slightly teasing edge.

“Hm.” Dwalin’s grunt sounded rather unimpressed and his face was carefully composed. He reached for a small towel and wiped his sweaty face and hands. Then he took the water flask that lay on the table where his sketches were and took a long swig.

Slowly making his way into the room Thorin sighed. “Dwalin, what is all this? It’s been a long time since you’ve been coming home. I am not sure what to make of it.”

The warrior’s eyebrows shot up. “Home? I am home, Thorin. Just as ye are.”

Thorin frowned. “Don’t play daft,” he replied, annoyed, “You know exactly what I mean. Why have you not come back to me? You’ve always come back after we’ve had rows and I have given you plenty of space-“

Dwalin barked a humourless laugh that belied the emptiness in his eyes. “That’s what ye think this is? Ye givin’ me space an’ me bein’ too stubborn ta relent in ma anger an’ come crawlin’ back into yer bed?”

_This is not going great_. Thorin took a deep breath and did his best not to give into his frustration and begin shouting. Instead, he lifted his hands before him, showing his palms in what he hoped was a soothing gesture, and said: “There is nothing I can do to change my actions and unsay my words from that day,” he began slowly and evenly, making sure to keep his voice remorseful and his eyes steady on his Kurdel, “My hope was for your anger to settle and your hurt to soothe, and once you were back in my arms we could move forward together. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I would at least have a chance to prove my devotion to you.”

Dwalin’s grey eyes bore into him for a long moment, and then the warrior shook his head, scrubbing his large hands over his craggy face. “Ah, Thorin,” he sighed and Thorin was dismayed to watch him take a step back.

It was _not_ what Thorin wanted. He didn’t need any more space between his Kurdel and himself, he wanted, he _needed_ them to get closer again.

Putting everything on the line Thorin confessed: “I have large holes in recollecting what has happened while I was caught in my madness, it’s true, but I do remember the emotions. I do remember what I _felt_.”

“An’ wha’ did ya feel tha’ day?” Dwalin’s voice was deep and gravelly, and full of raw _pain_. “Tha’ day there was nothin’ but hatred in yer eyes, in yer every gesture. Ye did not hear ma words, ye did not allow ma presence an’ certainly not ma touch. Ye denied bein’ Thorin Oakenshield. _My_ Thorin Oakenshield. Ye drew yer sword an’ threatened ta kill me. Ye called me a traitor.” Dwalin nearly sobbed the last words and fell on a bench at the wall, burying his face in his hands.

Thorin’s heart felt like cracking. He did remember hatred. And he did remember terrible _impatience_ for being disturbed tending to his treasure. And _displeasure_ about being reminded about Thorin _Oakenshield_. That deed name had been nothing but a curse to him. A great warrior, aye, but too young to be a _true king_. And too much like his sire and grandsire to be accepted as such. That’s what he heard most of his life.

But he did no say that. Instead he said. “I do remember that it was your face surfacing through that black madness, and your voice coming to the forefront of my mind, louder than the voice of the gold. It was that what broke me from the sickness.”

Thorin watched as Dwalin sluggishly wiped the tears from his cheeks with his big, rough hands, and _oh_ , did he want to do it for him. Touch his loving face and bury his own hands in Dwalin’s thick beard and leave the palm of his hand on the pulse point at his neck. His Kurdel looked so _lost_. But Thorin knew it would be a mistake to touch him just now.

“Maybe so,” the warrior said at long last, his voice brittle. “But tha’ day has broken somethin’ in me, Thorin, an’ I cannot get past it.”

“So instead you focus all your waking moments on things that have you denying yourself?” He knew he came close to raising his voice and fell silent, biting his tongue.

But Dwalin only looked at him and chuckled humourlessly once more. “I’ve denied maself nearly all my life, Thorin, ta some extent, so it’s really not new ta me. An’ shouldn’t ye be pleased tha’ I give ma all ta yer mountain, ta yer people?”

Thorin shook his head, frustrated. He had meant that Dwalin worked every waking hour to keep his mind of his turmoil, not sleeping, not eating. “You purposefully misunderstand me. We are One, Dwalin. We are meant to be together. No matter what we do for the mountain and the people, once inside our rooms it should be just us. Us to be close, us to be intimate, devoted, to take care of each other, to give each other comfort.”

Dwalin’s grey gaze was intense, and just this side of vulnerable. “Ma comfort was always gladly given ta ye, Thorin, but I fear I cannot do so any more.” He got to his feet. “Because fer the first time I can’t shake the feelin’ tha’ many times I was little more than a distraction ta ye. A distraction from dark thoughts, from doubts, from fears. From the daily grind of endless stacks of parchment an’ the squabbles of the courtroom ye loathe so much. Our joinin’s were always ferocious, passionate, an’ I have no complaints. But I feel tha’ I have become an end ta a means fer ye. An’ I cannot allow maself ta be tha’ any more. For if I do I’ll lose wha’ little self-respect I have.”

Each word out of his Kurdel’s mouth was like a hammer-blow to his head and for a moment Thorin could only stare dumbly. “But we were happy. _We are One_.” It was all he could say.

Shaking his head slowly Dwalin turned away from him, going to his desk and busying himself smoothing the parchments with his sketches. “It’s hard ta be happy when there’s a voice in yer head constantly screamin’ tha’ yer not good enough.” He said it so quietly, almost as if speaking to himself, that Thorin nearly missed it. Even though there was no denying the edge of despair in Dwalin’s tone.

As soon as the words registered though his anger flared. “What do you mean by that, Dwalin? Have I not given you all of what I could give you of myself while we had nothing? And when you were away for _years_ to earn money to support Dís and the boys did I not give you a position of prestige the moment you returned for good. And did I not let you keep that position even when you stormed off in a huff every now and then to cool your temper after our arguments?”

Stormy eyes were drilling into him now, an angry flame sparkling to life. “Oh aye, ye gave me a position of prestige. How nice of ye! Ye actually know how much strife tha’ has caused? Makin’ me yer Guard Captain? Puttin’ me ‘fore any who had been there fer years longer than I?”

“You were the best option,” Thorin snarled crossly.

“Aye, I know. But it’d have been better ta let folk come ta tha’ conclusion on their own, instead of danglin’ me in their face. All knew we were shamurâl, an’ all thought I’m gettin’ a nice reward fer keepin’ yer cock warm at night. It did more harm than good, Thorin, as I’ve told ye many times. It would have only been a few years fer me ta work maself up the ranks. A lot of crime could have been avoided when the unsavoury characters of Ered Luin thought ta test ma abilities, an’ a lot of the nobles tha’ were against ye could have been silenced. But no. Ye didn’t take ma advice then. Just as ye didn’t a million other times over the years. Just as ye didn’t with those two morons ye made Generals.”

Thorin’s anger spiked. _Not that again!_ “Those two dwarves brought more than just themselves to Ered Luin. They brought money and options, and a little bit more class to the circle at court.”

“They also brought a new level of inequality ta Ered Luin, Thorin, exploitin’ dwarrow workin’ fer them an’ talkin’ down on any tha’ were not of their _circle_. An’ remind me: wha’ have they contributed ta yer quest as thanks? Tha’s right! Nothin’. Not even the cloaks on our backs.” Dwalin had also raised his voice.

Half preparing himself for another argument getting out of hand Thorin watched with shock as his Kurdel’s expression faded from murderous to heartbreak. The warrior sat back down on the bench, with a pained sound, immediately deflating. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Dwalin continued glumly, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. “But it does prove ma point: ye don’t ever take ma advice. Ye rule by yerself, listening to no-one’s council. Not Dis’, not Balin’s, an’ certainly not mine. I could never be yer Consort, not truly. Ye’d constantly question an’ undermine ma decisions an’ ma word. Ye may well trust me in the four walls of our bedroom an’ on the battle field, but no more than tha’.”

Thorin didn’t know what to respond. He was baffled. This was what Dwalin was thinking? It was not _true_. How was he, Thorin, supposed to be a King if he didn’t take charge of matters that concerned his people? Had he not survived only because he _took charge_? If he had waited until someone handed him things in life he’d still be living in a shack somewhere in Dunland.

He fell on the bench next to the warrior. For a while they sat beside each other in heavy silence.

“Ye should have been there, Thorin, when Onnhild arrived,” Dwalin said lowly after a long stretch. “Ye‘ve known her when she was little. Why weren’t ye there ta greet her an’ her lad? Ye could have sent a sign then, ta me, ta everyone, that ye care, that ye acknowledge me as yer One. That I _matter_. But ye left me ta face them alone.”

Wiping a tired hand over his face Thorin shook his head. “I didn’t feel it was my place. To be there. Not because of you and I, but because of Onnhild and the lad. I didn’t want to intrude in what was surely to be an awkward meeting.”

Dwalin hummed and shrugged. “Wasn’t awkward. Onnhild’s not like tha. An’ it’s like she said in her letter all those years ago. She won’t keep the lad from me, but she doesn’t expect anythin’ from me either. But it’s not easy for a dam on her own when she has a dwarfling. She needs ta work ta earn money fer them both an’ so I offered ta take him when she has no others ta do so. There’s only an aunt, her Amad’s older sister, but she’s quite frail an’ needs care herself. A few dams have gotten together ta help each other out, but there’s not really any rooms set up ta cope with a dozen pebbles and dwarflings runnin’ wild.”

“We need to set up a central Care Ward again,” Thorin said immediately, fighting a small smile. It was so Dwalin that he would be bothered by such a matter. “I’ll look into that.”

“The mountain will be better fer it,” Dwalin rumbled lowly, nodding.

While his insides feeling warmed a little by the calm words between them it occurred to Thorin then that - even if the lad weren’t his son - Dwalin would spend time with young Onnwin just the same, to help out Onnhild, whom he cared about as shumrâl and as a childhood friend, and because he liked the boy. Thorin knew he’d be fine with that. But he still couldn’t silence that niggling feeling of _resentment_ in the back of his mind. Resentment against Onnhild, who had and lost a One, whom she should have been mourning for the rest of her life instead of going after someone else’s, especially Thorin’s. As soon as she learned Dwalin had a One the dam should have well kept away from him, even as shumrâl. Thorin knew that if he didn’t voice his disgruntlement about that he’d be feeling it like an annoying little itch that could not be scratched and it would never, ever go away. Keeping his voice determinedly emotionless Thorin decided to trust the bubble of peace they had created between them just now, got to his feet and simply surged forward.

“So Onnhild lost her One? Was he a miner in an accident, like Víli?” He wasn’t sure why he thought that. But the Iron Hills were relatively peaceful; there were no real dangers inside the vast mountain ranges. Therefore it had to be a tragic accident of sorts. Maybe he was an engineer?

Dwalin’s response was immediate: “No, her One was a warrior, like her. They were shumrâl fer years until they joined as One.”

Thorin’s bubble burst and he couldn’t hold back a scoff. “I can’t help but see a pattern,” he commented archly. “You sure he truly was her One? Maybe that’s just her tactic and you’re only one in a long line who had the dubious honour to wield their sword for her. Of course with the small difference that your seed took.”

Dwalin was off the bench and in his face in the blink of an eye, grey eyes flashing furiously as he glared down at Thorin. The muscles on the warrior’s bare forearms rippled when he balled his fists, his broad chest expanded when he took a deep breath and _Mahal, he looked so hot_.

Thorin swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth, ignoring the small voice in his head that said he was a moron, had let his irritation getting the better of him and just had gone way too far with his thoughtless remark.

“Yer lucky yer a king, Thorin, otherwise I’d sock ye fer tha’ comment,” the warrior growled angrily, steely eyes radiating with angry sparks, “But I’ll not risk gettin’ kicked out of the mountain fer layin’ a hand on _his Majesty_ , even though one should think a comment like tha’ would be well below the standard of someone as mighty as King Thorin, _the Reclaimer_.” The sarcasm in Dwalin’s voice cut like a sharp blade and Thorin couldn’t help but wince. “Then again, what do I know?” The warrior’s voice quieted as quickly as it had increased in volume, and turned distinctly hoarse as he continued. “All I know is tha’ I’ll not be goaded into doin’ somethin’ stupid an’ risk my lad an’ his mother will have ta suffer the consequences for ma actions. But be warned, Thorin, leave them out of our quarrel.” And with a last, burning look Dwalin stormed from the forge.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you to the very few reading this, as ever makes my day that others like this little niche of the Middle Earth Fandom as well. Dwalin all the way :)  
> Please note the last tag. This story will have a happy ending, the question is just for whom.

Thorin watched Dís, flanked by Royal Guards, make her round along the stalls of the various vendors and exchanging a few words here and there before returning to the High Table on the raised platform, where he had remained sitting.

It was a beautiful day, this first anniversary of what had become known as the Battle of Five Armies; the autumn sky was blue with not a cloud in sight and folk from all three allied races mingled in Dale for the commemoration. While yesterday had been a day of solemn remembrance, today was a day of festivity and cheer. Bard had done well organizing his part in it, and the Dale of now had little in common with the Dale of back then. Thorin was pleased.

“I wish Víli could be here to see it,” Dis said with a sad smile as she took her seat next to him. Together they watched the King of Dale swing his youngest daughter about on the dance floor below. “He would have come to love Erebor as a home, just as we do.”

Thorin had no doubt. “Víli loved you and everything you did and said. He would have loved living in a tent at the foot of Mount Doom if you had said that’s where you wanted to be.” Thorin had truly liked his good-natured brother-in-law, with his easy smile and his outgoing nature, so very different from his own brooding character.

Dís chuckled but didn’t disagree. “In so many ways he was the exact opposite of me,” she said softly and when she turned her sharp eyes on Thorin he already knew what was coming before she continued speaking. “Just like our grandparents were, and our Amad and Adad, you and Dwalin: opposites, in so many ways.”

“Yet we are all One by Mahal’s grace.” He couldn’t help but make that point. Thorin believed in little these days, but he had to believe in that, especially after that disaster that had been the highly unsettling and frustrating talk/discussion/argument/debate/clash? - Thorin wasn’t sure what to call it - with Dwalin in his forge several weeks ago.

“Aye, that we are.” Dís fell silent and they looked out over the bustle below, observing the revelry. Fíli was dancing with Bard’s eldest; she was leaning down, whispering into his ear and he lost his footing several times because he was laughing at whatever it was she told him in secret. Kíli sat on a table at the other end of the square, the red-haired elf next to him on the bench, which put them at the same height. Kíli spoke to her in his usual energetic ways, arms moving about like windmills, while she listened, for once not wearing the enigmatic smile of her people but a genuine one. Thorin would be lying if he liked what he saw, but he didn’t want to sour the day, so he turned his attention elsewhere.

Ori sat with Dori at the other end of the High Table, busy sketching as much as his eyes could take in, his brother moving parchment and ink bottles in and out of reach with the ease of long years of practice. Balin sat next to Dori, nursing a large tankard of ale, looking at ease. Balin, who had, for the first time since Thorin had known him, excused himself early on several afternoons, stating he had private commitments. Thorin didn’t ask what commitments those were, but he had a fair idea.

Nori was _likely_ somewhere around, invisible, as usually, until he was needed. Bombur was _definitely_ somewhere with his family, after spending most of the night and morning preparing the feast that was to follow on the morrow within the mountain. Bifur’s and Bofur’s stall with toys was nearly overrun with eager customers since they had released deftly crafted figures of the Company and Smaug, a highly sought commodity amongst the children of Dale and those of the mountain. Thorin spotted Gimli, Glóin’s son, following his parents and uncle, eyeing the moving wings of the wooden dragon with an expression of jealousy and disdain; the poor lad clearly torn between wanting to be a dwarfling still, to be able to play with it, and a dwarf come of age, who didn’t need toys any more. With a wistful grin Thorin remembered that feeling from his own experience, as probably all grown-ups did, no matter their race. His focus was drawn to Glóin, who had stopped and bent down to speak to a dwarfling.

Thorin would have recognized that mop of thick black hair anywhere.

So Glóin was aquatinted with young Onnwin.

It was not really a surprise.

Thorin had managed little else these past weeks, but he had at least managed to raise the question of a Pebble Care Ward with his Council, and had put Dís in charge for seeing it set up when they agreed. He knew that she had, with the help of engineers and architects, found a suitable area in the mountain, not far off the Main Hall, and work on making it into a usable space was almost done, all of the Company chipping in, including many of the parents of the soon-to-be-opened space.

So naturally, everyone would have gotten acquainted with everyone.

Of course Thorin didn’t _know_ if it had been explained to Glóin or anyone else in the Company that his estrangement from Dwalin had nothing to do with Onnwin, but ran far deeper. However, since Balin had said the Company had connected the dots regarding the lad’s Sire and with their recent work together it was clear from his body language that Glóin considered the lad part of the family.

Thorin watched as Onnwin said something and lifted his hands to show off whatever it was he was holding. The lad wore black pants, a dark green tunic and a furry vest over it. Even from a distance he looked like a miniature Dwalin. Letting his eyes wander in search for the figure of the grown-up version Thorin’s gaze only fell on Onnhild, who stood with Glóin’s wife Fárni, the two dams talking. Onnhild was out of uniform and her rich amber hair shone in the sunlight, rivalling Fárni’s red glow.

“She’s guessed you’re Dwalin’s One.” Dís’ comment was as blasé as if she was talking about a blunt knife being in need of sharpening and Thorin couldn’t bring himself to do more than grunt in acknowledgment of it, knowing that whatever was on her mind, this first comment was only the beginning and he had no way of getting away from her just now. Unless he ran, which was not dignified for a grown-up dwarf, or a King.

“I’ve spoken to him, obviously.” _Obviously_. “And much has been said between us that will not ever be repeated to others, including you.” _Yet you’re raising the subject_ , Thorin wanted to say but, for once, kept his tongue. “But I will say that I have never felt so out of my depth as when I held Dwalin while he cried.” That comment definitely sent his insides into a whirlwind of turmoil and made his heart ache something fierce. “The dwarf I’ve known for all my life, that brave, honourable, hardworking, good dwarf was sobbing his heart out. He has not told me what happened between the two of you just before the battle and he was determined to not answer my questions nor share what is going on in that thick skull of his. But I managed to poke him until he got angry ...” - Thorin could honestly say he was not surprised, Dís was a master at needling and Dwalin was not famous for his patience for it - “... and when he broke apart he told me much more than he meant to. I had no idea he felt so ... inadequate at your side. So meaningless. He’s hidden it well for all these years, Thorin, to his own detriment. To see him so anguished and dejected has changed my view on the matter. Because before I was about ready to drag the both of you into a cell in the dungeon and lock you up until you’ve resolved your issues, with a hefty exchange of blows or wild sex, I wouldn’t have cared.”

“But now?” Thorin held his breath.

“But now I can see that there are no words to console him, Thorin, and no quick fix to mend something that has gone wrong for decades. Actions, Thorin, would have been the only thing that could have fixed this. Especially after what happened between the two of you before the battle – which I still don’t know, but I can hazard a guess.” His sister shot him a dark look before exhaling slowly and looking out over the square once more. “But I fear that any action of yours comes way too late now.” Her voice rung with sadness and resignation, both.

“Not a minute ago you agreed that Ones are made by Mahal’s grace,” Thorin couldn’t help but point out scathingly. “Who are we to question that? Dwalin is _meant_ to be with me, not with anyone else. And certainly not with Onnhild, who had a One of her own, regardless of Onnwin.”

“Mahal may have given you both a half of the same soul, but I am not sure you deserve a heart such as Dwalin’s,” Dís responded and Thorin struggled to force down a lot of very complicated emotions. “And no, I don’t question our Maker’s plan, Thorin. And neither does Dwalin. In fact he hasn’t questioned anything for all his life. He’s never complained, but continued to obey his King, take care of his One and our family, fight for his people, face every test our Maker has put before him, never backing down and always suffering through his turmoil in silence. For all he has done for us, we have repaid him poorly. You have repaid him poorly. Dwalin deserves more than a One who does not trust his judgement, who does not openly claim him for nearly a century.”

Grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt Thorin fought to keep his face impassive, but his fists balled that his knuckles turned white. “You know full well that we have not had the luxury of living the way we wanted. After all the years of war, our station in Ered Luin was too fragile.”

“Nonsense,” Dís said harshly, looking as if she had no compunction slapping him in front of all the people in the square. “It’s true that our station was fragile, but it would have been no less fragile had you openly stood by your One. It would have upset some, but I believe it would have rallied more people to your side, who would have admired you for sticking by your One instead of listening to the squabbles of your council, most of them relics from the Erebor of old, disliked by the majority and barely more than a pain in the backside.” She took a deep breath, working to keep her temper in check. They sat silently, but their argument must have registered somehow as Balin and Dori shot them concerned glances.

Dís dipped her chin into their direction and smiled to soothe their worries.

“I know you care for him,” she said quietly a moment later, “But you have underestimated how much it hurt him to hear folk whisper about the status they believed he only got because he was your bedwarmer.”

“We were shumrâl,” Thorin snarled, “It is perfectly respectable and accepted to be sharing a bed-“

“In wartime, Thorin,” Dís interrupted coolly, “Ered Luin was not that. You did nothing to stop the whispers, nothing to shut up the gossipers, never proving to Dwalin and everyone else that he is far more to you.”

“I have made a vow to bond with him when we have reclaimed Erebor,” Thorin bit out between clenched teeth.

“Aye.” Dís waved her hand in a blasé motion. “But Erebor has been reclaimed for a year. Surely even you can see that is one thing to make such a promise, another entirely to actually be keeping it. Actions, Thorin. Actions.”

Thorin took a while to calm himself, his head was spinning. He was the last dwarf who would consider himself infallible and he knew well he was not perfect, but Dís’ words shook him more than he cared to admit. Of course Dís had never held back, if she harboured an opinion she’d be sure to make it known. She had married her Víli against all odds, against their Adad’s wishes, against the will of the few Nobles that still held with the line of Durin, even against Thorin’s will, initially, although he had come around quickly, knowing well that if Víli was what Dís wanted, Víli was what Dís got, plus he did come to like Víli. Maybe he should have taken a leaf out of her book and just done the same. The fact that he might have ruined the best thing in his life because he was trying to do something _right_ was rather gut wrenching and he had trouble breathing.

Of course his Kurdel chose that very moment to appear in the square below, lifting Onnwin and swinging him high up in the air before settling him on his broad shoulders, the dwarfling’s excited squeal easily heard over the music and the merriment. The few times Thorin had seen Dwalin at a distance after their encounter in the forge Dwalin had looked even worse than in all the months before. It was heartbreaking to see the mighty dwarf so _diminished_. But Thorin didn’t feel all too swell himself and since he had bodged their conversation so badly with this thoughtless remark he was at a loss what else he could possibly say or do to make it right.

Dís said action was needed and Thorin had always considered himself a dwarf of action. But she also said he may be too late and as Thorin watched Onnhild offer a bag of candied nuts to Dwalin and the warrior give her small smile before taking it and lifting some up to the lad on his shoulders he couldn’t shake the feeling that indeed his time to fix things was running out.

 

~*~

 

That night he drank himself into a stupor.

Bombur had informed him that they were at an end of that batch of barrels of bibil’urs they had discovered and Thorin decided to indulge in it properly one last time. Some hours later he found himself sprawled over the plush cushions on the settee in his sitting room, indulging in memories of Dwalin and him during happier times. Like when Frerin had been a prat and Thorin filled his scabbard with honey and sand while Dwalin looked the other way. Dwalin with his Mohawk frozen solidly after one of the epic snowball fights they had outside the mountain in Winter. Dwalin with flour in his beard and batter on his bald head when he was making pancakes with Fíli and Kíli. Dwalin with a split lip, a black eye and bloody knuckles after he busted Thorin out of some trouble in a town of Men. Dwalin on a picnic blanket in their bedroom because he wanted to treat Thorin to the same pampering Víli had given to Dís, who had come home with rosy cheeks and dreamy eyes. Unlike Víli and Dís though _they_ couldn’t go out into the summer’s meadows for fear of being seen by someone, so instead Dwalin spoiled him in the small bedroom.

Thorin didn't realize that tears were dripping down his face and that he was sobbing until strong arms hugged him tight and his face was pressed into a chest.

“Frerin,” he cried, thinking he’d recognize that scent anywhere, “I don’t know what to _do_? I miss him so much. I cannot live without him.”

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, and I am so sorry.” The voice was soft and caring. But it was not Frerin’s.

Struggling a little to lift his head Thorin looked into the blue eye of his heir. “Fíli,” he said hoarsely.

“Aye, uncle, it’s me.” The lad hugged him tightly again. “I am sorry I am not Frerin. And I am sorry you are in so much pain.”

And that just did it and opened the floodgates. Thorin was not a crying dwarf; in fact he couldn’t really remember the last time he cried. And he wouldn’t have cried now. If not for Fíli’s compassionate embrace and his familiar voice mumbling comforting words while strong hands stroked his back. So Thorin cried. Until he was hoarse and exhausted and so wrung out that he could barely sit up on his own. Alright that may have been partially the bibil’urs’ fault, but still.

Fíli helped putting him straight and rose to bring him a cup of water and a damp towel. Thorin managed to wipe his face and sip the water and after a long silence he felt capable to ask: “What are you doing here?”

Fíli gave him a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Tend to walk about a bit at night. Thought I heard a noise and walked in. Lucky I did.”

Thorin nodded dumbly. “Not sure it’s luck if you see me this way.”

“Why? You think I don’t know that you struggle? You think I don’t know that you drink too much, eat too little, have terrible dreams if you sleep at all and that you try to work yourself to exhaustion, only it isn’t working.”

“You are very observant,” Thorin told him wryly.

Fíli snorted. “You are very obvious. Just like Dwalin. And just so you know: I’ve had pretty much the same discussion with him as well a few weeks ago. You two are so bloody alike; it’s pathetic that you don’t manage to sort this out.”

Thorin could only nod again. But then he remembered what Dís had said. “Your Amad thinks Dwalin and I are the exact opposites in many ways,” he informed his nephew mulishly.

Cocking his head Fili thought for a moment. “True, he’s much more outgoing than you, has a terribly romantic streak, can actually cook and has a very good sense of direction.” His nephew grinned cheekily when all Thorin could do was glower at him halfheartedly. “But you are both more stubborn than the roots of the mountain are deep. You both have a terrible temper and a short fuse and it is lucky you are Ones, because if for some reason you were enemies we’d be in a terrible pickle, as Bilbo would say.”

Not able to hold back a small smile Thorin fought the urge to cry once more.

“I’ve met her, you know,” Fíli continued quietly, “Onnhild. I was determined to hate her and she knew it, too. She was very wary of me, almost afraid, which is not something that I’m used to.” The blonde dwarf looked sorrowful. “Anyway, I was trying to hate her, Kíli, too. But it’s no use. She’s a nice dam, honest, terribly blunt even, once she gets talking, a bit like Amad in that way. And she’s really good with the mace.”

“Aye,” Thorin readily agreed, “She was always a nice dam, from what I remember, and a good soldier. I’m not surprised she turned into a fine warrior indeed. And none of this mess is her fault.”

“And she dotes on her son.” Fíli spoke even quieter. “He is a sweet lad. I like him, too. Balin says he looks like Dwalin when he was that age.”

A nod was all Thorin managed.

Fíli sighed deeply and rubbed a hand over the scar on his face. “It never occurred to me, you know, how much you and Dwalin have sacrificed for me and Kíli. I mean, I knew you sacrificed your dinners so we were fed, that you fixed your tunics for the umpteenth time so we could get new ones. That Dwalin went on caravans for years to earn the extra money. And that the both of you did your best to teach us all you know so we didn’t need to pay for tutors. And for all of that I am more grateful than I can ever say.” Leaning forward Fíli put his hands on Thorin’s knees and looked at him intently with his one eye. “But it never occurred to me how much you sacrificed as a couple, so Kíli and I could be raised the way we were. I remember when I finally understood why Dwalin seemed to be there at every breakfast, the first to wake and stir the fire, to put the kettle on, and why he never seemed in a rush to get out of our house in the evenings. But only now I understand what it meant that you had to sneak around for so many years, even in your own home. You never danced together. You never even sat together, holding hands or one having an arm around the other. That you could never even argue properly, always having to hush it up. I cannot imagine the strain it has put on your relationship. But it is clearly showing now. Uncle,” his heir peered at him earnestly. “What has happened between the two of you before the battle? Dwalin says something broke in him that day and he does not know how to fix it. And he does not think you care to fix it. I know he’s not right about you not caring to fix it, miserable as you are. I told him as much, might have even smacked him over the head as well. As did Amad by the way. But it’s done no good.”

Thorin couldn’t hold back a wry grin. He wasn’t surprised that smacking Dwalin didn’t change the fierce warrior’s mind.

“He’s not well, Thorin,” Fíli continued cautiously. “He’s been quite ill actually, to the point of worry. He collapsed one evening and was in bed for almost a week, shaking uncontrollably and not keeping any food down, not even the thinnest broth. Óin didn’t know anymore what to do and with his mother’s permission we put Onnwin in bed with Dwalin. The lad managed what none of us could: Dwalin slept without terrors and the shaking stopped after Onnwin was the one to insist on feeding Dwalin. It was quite the sight, and just a little bit messy. But Dwalin held his temper and he could not refuse his son. And after another week he was on his feet once more. Onnhild has offered he move in with them.” His heir hesitated. “And Dwalin is planning on officially accepting Onnwin as his son. I believe Balin has already drawn up the papers.”

Thorin sighed, his heart heavy. “It’s the honourable thing to do. I’ve never thought Dwalin anything but honourable.”

“Indeed.” Fíli sat back and looked at his boots. “Kíli and I ... we know what it’s like to be teased about your father.”

Looking up sharply Thorin growled. “Who teased you about your father?”

Fíli flapped a hand nondescript. “A lot of people. Half the time we came home with bloody noses and said we had a tussle with each other we actually had a fight with folk that said the wrong thing about our parentage.”

“You should have told me,” Thorin spat, resentment and bitterness rising like bile in his throat. “I would have set them straight. Nobody insults my family.”

Smiling softly Fíli gave him a little grin. “Aye, and Dwalin helped us so many times to settle our differences at the training ring. Because of him things didn’t get out of control that they ended up as a feud.”

“I did not know,” Thorin mumbled, feeling like an idiot.

“That was the point,” Fíli said with a smirk, “You weren’t meant to, busy with doing the right thing as you were. The point is: we know what it’s like if folk make fun of your Amad or your Adad, Kíli and I. We don’t want that for Onnwin. So we support Dwalin in accepting him as his son.” He hesitated. “I just thought you should know the reasons behind his decision. Not that you think he’s doing it to spite you or something like that. Because that’s not it at all.”

Thorin felt tired, so tired. But he nodded “Aye, I understand. And I approve.” He looked up at his heir. “When have you become so wise, rayadud?”

“I’ve had good teachers,” the lad said, bless him.

“Can’t have been me, wise is the last thing I am.”

Fíli grinned a little and for a moment he looked a bit like the young, relatively carefree dwarf he used to be before all the darkness of the quest. But then he turned serious and eyed Thorin cautiously for a moment before nodding to himself, as if he’d come to a decision. “You should also know that Onnhild has encouraged Dwalin to not give up on you,” he said softly, “She says she knows what it’s like to lose your One. The pain is nearly unbearable. She does not want that for the father of her son.”

“It is understandable. Already our differences affect young Onnwin’s life. It’s not how it should be.” Thorin nodded, heart heavy with sadness. In the end it was always the young that paid for the adult’s idiocy. He knew that better than many.

“True. But I don’t think you understand. The fact that they are now living together. You are going to lose Dwalin for good if you don’t find a way to show him how much you care about him. And soon. Because he’s starting to build a new life, without you in it.”

Lifting a hand to wipe his face Thorin heaved a deep sigh. “I’ve tried, Fíli,” he confessed, “but in the end I couldn’t keep my tongue in check, insulted him and Onnhild and hurt Dwalin’s feelings even more. He’s always needed space from me when we argued, time to collect himself, time to get over what I’ve said and done. Only this time he seemed to have come to the conclusion that I don’t love him anymore. Maybe it’s his love for me that has ended.” It was hard to say it out loud, and Thorin felt as if he was nearly choking on the words.

Fíli shook his head sadly. “Oh no, he does love you, uncle, that is _exactly_ the problem.”

 

~*~

 

A week later Dwalin, son of Fundin, officially stepped forward as Sire of Onnwin, son of Onnhild.

 

~*~

 

It was just past Khebabnurtamrâg when Thorin was required to say the words that would lead Master Wire-Weaver Onnbola on her path to Ithendûm. As King it was one of his duties to attend a Return-To-Stone-Ceremony, but since there had been so many throughout his life that had to be buried or burnt in a rush without such privilege Thorin didn’t look at it as duty, but as an honour.

While this funeral had not attracted a huge crowd of mourners, it was well visited, and with quite a diverse group, too. For Dís was there, and Fíli and Kíli, as well as all members of the Company, and Glóin’s and Bombur’s wives and offspring. As well as several old Masters of various crafts, warriors from both the Mountain and the Royal Guard, and a large number of dams with their pebbles and dwarflings, for the departed had spent a lot of her time helping the single dams to balance their work with the joys of motherhood.

But first and foremost she had spent her time with Onnwin and his Amad.

It was the first time in over a century Thorin was but a few feet away from Onnhild, daughter of Gnan and Onneleid; the dam’s face a mask of pale marble, only emphasized by her white mourning clothes and the white shawl that covered her rich amber hair. Her aunt Onnbola had been a blessed age indeed, and her passing could not possibly have been terribly unexpected. Yet, Onnhild looked truly stricken. Thinking about it for a moment it occurred to Thorin then that this was likely the dam’s last living blood relative, apart from her son.

He could not imagine the feeling. His family was small enough, but at least he had Dís and the lads, and with Óin, Glóin, Balin, Dwalin and Dain a handful of second cousins, with two of them having sired their own offspring and therefore continuing the family line.

No, Thorin corrected himself with a look at Onnwin who stood next to his Amad, holding tightly to her hand: three of them had sired a son.

The lad’s little face was scrunched up in distress, and thick, fat tears kept running down his chubby cheeks during Thorin’s entire oration. When Thorin stepped aside and Balin took over to read the elegy, praising Onnbola’s sense of humour, talent at her craft and aptitude at making lawâzkasab, Onnwin began sobbing. His Amad swiftly picked him up and settled him on her hip. The lad immediately wrapped his short arms around her neck, sniffling into her shoulder. Dwalin, who was right beside Onnhild and a mere half step behind her, slung his muscly arm around her comfortingly. The warrior’s face was sorrowful and drawn, and with unease Thorin remembered Fíli’s words about Dwalin’s illness.

It was the first time Thorin was this close to his One as well, after their disastrous conversation at the forge as well, because like the coward he was Thorin had not joined into the celebration that followed Dwalin weaving a Sire’s braid into Onnwin’s dark hair and capping it off with a bead that bore the sigil of the house of Fundin. Which was why he now, half hidden by shadows in the dimly lit burial chamber, hungrily took in his Kurdel’s features.

Aye, Dwalin looked gaunt and drawn, and there were distinct silver streaks in his thick beard and hair that hadn’t been there a few months ago, and he had not yet regained the weight he had lost; the light grey tunic hanging off his shoulders oddly. Thorin could not say if the pallor of Dwalin’s face was less than it had been, with only two torches illuminating the small space. But Thorin could make out that the dark shadows under Dwalin’s eyes were less pronounced than they had been when last they spoke. 

When Balin intoned the coronach and the moderate crowd of mourners joined in Thorin’s eyes locked with Dwalin’s over the stone tomb. The grey gaze from under heavy brows burned with intense gravity and Thorin’s heart skipped a beat. No matter Dwalin’s scowl and stony face his eyes never could hide that his Kurdel was a good soul; truth and honest emotion shone from them even now. But they did not show the love and longing Thorin was hoping to see. Instead there was profound sadness and a hint of dejection, deep resignation even, and raw vulnerability.

While Dwalin’s fervent gaze used to warm Thorin’s soul, the echo of longanimity deep within his eyes now made him shiver. The cold he had felt in his heart for all these months without his Kurdel by his side trickling down his spine to the very toes in his boots.

It almost made him nauseous.

Onnhild’s eyes were closed as she sang but Onnwin began fidgeting and held up his arms over his Amad’s shoulder, wordlessly demanding to be held by his Adad. Dwalin’s focus shifted to his son immediately and he easily lifted the lad and hugged him close, moving the tiniest bit forward so Onnhild could feel his presence behind her and would know he was still there, and aye, Thorin did almost painfully miss having that wonderful wall of warm muscle against his back.

When the song ended the congregation slowly left the burial chamber, making their way to a side room of the Meal Hall where the Wake was going to be held. Balin lingered long enough to briefly lay a comforting hand on Onnhild’s shoulder before he followed the throng of mourners. Dís hesitated, glancing at Thorin and jutting her chin towards the door in an invitation to come along, but Thorin ignored her, keeping his eyes on his Kurdel.  

Onnwin was still held up by Dwalin’s strong arms, but as Onnhild looked at the stone cask with a forlorn and desolate expression the warrior easily shifted the lad onto one side and reached out with his free hand, gently pulling the dam backwards against his broad torso. She hesitated a little, fighting the tears, but when he tugged again she gave in, turning around and burying her face against Dwalin’s chest. Thorin knew Onnwin would feel the warrior’s heat through his tunic and likely even feel his heart beat, strong and steady and _soothing_ , as it always had been.

Dwalin’s long arms engulfed them both then, the lad and the dam, hugging them tightly, and he did not look up again to meet Thorin’s gaze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elegy (Greek, elegia ‘lament’): poem written in tribute to the dead, not to be confused with eulogy, which can also be done as praise for persons still alive, at birthdays etc (from Classical Greek, eu for ‘well/true’, logia for ‘words/text’)  
> Coronach: Scottish/ Irish: a funeral song  
> rayadud - Heir, endearment  
> Khebabnurtamrâg - Forge Day Fest, marks the end of winter. Durin’s axe is said to have been forged that day, which is why it is a day sacred to smiths.  
> Ithendûm – Halls of Waiting, dwarrow heaven  
> Lawâzkasab - nutcake


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. It's the first time I didn't plan a story from beginning to end but let it flow on its own. A new and very different way of writing, let me tell you. As such I wasn't quite sure where the ending would take me. But I feel this makes the most sense. I hope you'll agree.

The first weeks after Master Wire-Weaver Onnbola’s Return-To-Stone-Ceremony were difficult, and Thorin struggled with his self-control. Not a day went by where he didn’t find himself halfway out of the door, Orcrist in hand, ready to confront Onnhild, to _demand_ she remove herself from Dwalin’s presence. More than once, while writing missives, he found himself drafting the order to dismiss her from the mountain.

It was _irritating_.

But the excruciatingly sour, burning emotion that surged through him every time he recalled seeing her in Dwalin’s embrace was nothing to the raw feeling of _possessiveness_ that followed immediately after. And that feeling made him stop at the door or throw the parchment with the half-finished order into the flames every time.

Because he remembered that same feeling from the time he was caught in the gold-sickness.

And that was not irritating, but _frightening_.

A dwarf’s chief temptation was greed, everyone knew that. Greed to possess, to covet, to love. It had been greed for the treasure’s gold and the Arkenstone that had nearly been Thorin’s downfall. And now he had to recognize his feelings regarding Onnhild as _jealousy_. Jealousy stemming from the greed to have his One to himself.

All dwarrow were known to love fiercely, and jealously. And while he also knew that he loved Dwalin fiercely, wasn’t jealousy any more than a sign of insecurity? A sign reflecting his innermost desire to see his One as someone to be possessed, to be coveted. It was a thoroughly negative emotion, a dangerous one, too, and Thorin was determined to steer well clear of it.

It was easier said than done, however, and even after recognizing the signs it took Thorin a long time to temper down these poisonous emotions. And after all the months of numbness and hesitation and _resignation_ Thorin felt emotionally so drained that he could not keep the anger at bay that followed.

Anger at himself, at his cluelessness about so many things that obviously had happened over all the years in Ered Luin. Anger at _Dwalin_ , for giving comfort to another in such a tender way, for giving his time to his son and his mother, for not coming back to _him_. Anger at Dís for needling. At _fate_ for making his life one marred of hardships and hurdles and not one of happiness and peaceful times.

Hatred followed.

Thorin truly hated himself for all his failings. During those dark days he could not remember a single good thing he did in all his life.

Wine was his constant companion and he didn’t leave his bedroom for days on end.

Dís was the only one he tolerated in his presence during that time, and only if she didn’t speak. He threw her out more than once when she didn’t manage to hold her tongue, and only when she ran from the room at last - in tears of anger and disappointment over his behavior and terribly upset with his harsh crudeness - and Fíli sternly told him to amend his ways or he’ll personally be setting him straight – which was a feat in itself as his heir somehow managed to hold Kíli back at the same time to be doing exactly that without so much talking - Thorin managed to find his feet once more.

The true revelation, however, came to him after a particularly vivid dream, where his grandfather had him by the lapels and bellowed at him to stop _whining_ but sort himself out before reaching into his chest and ripping out something that looked suspiciously like the Arkenstone. Thorin felt himself flung across the room, sliding over the golden floor, just as he had when fighting the gold sickness, and watched as Thror loomed over him, eyes shining madly, breaking the shiny jewel in half with his bare hands. He pressed one half into Thorin’s chest, ignoring his cries of pain and agony. Then he squished the other half of the Arkenstone to dust between strong, relentless fingers, all while sneering into his face: _Feel that! Your other half is nothing but dust now._

When Thorin woke, sweating and shaking, the recollection of the vivid terror made him throw up violently over the side of the bed.

But when he had calmed down once more he finally realized with utter clarify that he would never be getting Dwalin back unless he did a complete turnaround of his life. Beginning with _forgiving_ himself, first and foremost. He could not change the past, and a great deal of blame for the current situation _did_ lie with him – and wasn’t that a revelation in itself - but he would find the strength to move forward only if he let go of that blame.

Thorin removed the wine from his rooms and began setting his days to a strict routine. He rose with the morning bell and went straight to the royal sparring ring. The Royal Guards weren’t sure what had hit them when he asked for volunteers to pair with him. It was satisfying to see that even after his heavy injury and nearly a year of not lifting a sword he had lost none of his skill, but Mahal he was in pain, especially in the beginning. After his spar he had a bath, relaxing his muscles and exercising his foot, which still gave him grief. A light breakfast and then he was at Balin’s disposal. With the midday bell Thorin promptly stepped away from whatever he was doing - although it did cause a stir when he walked out from a council meeting the first time - to walk through his mountain. Up and down he went, from the lowest mine to the highest walkway, visiting a new area every day, talking to his people, answering their questions and asking his own. The afternoon went by with more ‘ruling’. Then a solid dinner and more paperwork before a bath and hot milk with honey. He hadn’t expected it, but he actually slept well right from the start, as if the decision to change his life alone had purged his mind from all the darkness he used to be reliving in his wine dazed dreams.

Some evenings Thorin spent in his forge, working on a new bead for Dwalin, a new set of axes and a rather splendid war hammer. He’d be using them as his courting gifts, together with the beautiful black cat fur he bought from a trader from the East, and the barrel of Old Toby pipe weed, courtesy of Master Baggins.

Thorin rarely saw Dwalin, but he made sure he was seen _seeing_ Dwalin. Like when he came to the training rings and watched his Kurdel spar with the new recruits. Or when he came to the public baths and watched Dwalin teach young Onnwin how to swim. Or when he was in the Meal Hall at dinner times and observed Dwalin, Onnhild and the lad taking their evening meal together.

He knew Dwalin saw him, too, the grey graze resting on him often.

It filled Thorin with hope and he knew the time was near where he would present his Kurdel with his gifts and finally fulfil his promises of Devotion and Intent and make their bond public.  

He had everything planned, beginning with a carefully arranged picnic on the ledge outside the secret door. Then the bead, and Thorin’s fingers were itching at the mere thought of being able to finally weave it into his Kurdel’s beard, for all the world to see.

The ball on the eve of Durin’s Day was a grand affair. The second anniversary of the re-entering of the mountain. Looking around, Thorin was proud of his people. So much had been achieved in only two years. True, Erebor was not nearly as occupied as it had been at its heydays, but they would get there, eventually. And, watching folk being merry on the dance floor Thorin was, for the first time in a long time, also proud of himself. He was a survivor; he’d fought and overcome adversity, again and again. And soon he’d be back in his Kurdel’s arms and warm once more, inside and out.

Thorin happily watched Dís dance with her sons, with Glóin, Dori and Bofur, even with old Balin, although he himself refrained from going on the dance floor - it had never really been his thing. Dwalin spun Dís around as well, and she laughed heartily at something he said. He looked better again, his Kurdel, had filled back out and smiled a great deal. There was a serene calm to him now, even though he still looked fierce and actually in better shape than he had for many years in Ered Luin.

Aye, Thorin would be forever grateful to Onnhild for having put the warrior back together when he could not. He’d not be holding a grudge that she obviously held a part of his heart, Thorin promised himself, as he watched Dwalin and the dam dance. They swayed to the rhythm of the music and looked very comfortable together. Despite his promise to himself Thorin could not hold back a frown when Dwalin opened his arms at the end of the dance, unnecessarily so, and Onnhild readily stepped into his embrace, hugging him right back around the waist. Young Onnwin interrupted them, dragging a laughing Ori after him. The dwarfling launched himself into his Adad’s arms, who caught him easily and threw him up high into the air several times, before peppering his chubby face with kisses. Dwalin laughed when Onnwin squirmed and tried to get away, trapping him between his big strong body and that of his Amad. Thorin left the hall to the sight of the three of them dancing together, certain in his belief to be the only one his Kurdel would hug in such an intimate way from the next day onward.

 

~*~

 

Determined to be well rested, calm and at ease on the morrow when Dwalin would likely be moving back in with him, Thorin took his time to go over the arrangements one more time. Then he went over all the things he was planning to say. On his knees. He’d be wearing only a light blue tunic over his dark trousers. No furs, no armour, no jewels. He’d be bearing his soul. Thorin had practiced his speech meticulously for many weeks. He knew it by heart. Nothing would go wrong.

Pouring his milk and stirring in the honey Thorin breathed deep and forced himself to relax.

All would be well.

Finally.

Tomorrow all would be well again.

He was aware that he would have to make concessions on Dwalin’s time. His Kurdel would not give up on Onnwin, and neither should he have to. They might even organize a small room so the lad could stay nearby every now and then. Yes, that was a good idea. Thorin would ask the architects about-

 … his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Thorin narrowed his eyes. His guards knew not to disturb him once he had retired, unless it was an emergency.

Putting his milk down Thorin went to open the door.

It was Dwalin.

Staring at his Kurdel Thorin was momentarily thrown.

“I would have a moment of yer time, Thorin, if I may.” Dwalin’s voice was quiet and sincere. No anger. Had he come to his senses all on his own?

Fighting back the small grin Thorin nodded dumbly and stepped back, letting the warrior enter. Still wearing the same clothes he wore during the ball Dwalin smelled of spiced wine and roast meet. _He must have come straight from the Great Hall._

“What can I do for you, Dwalin?” Thorin made sure to keep his voice even and every ounce of surprise and rapture out of it.

Rubbing a large hand over his tattooed head Dwalin walked into the middle of the room before turning. Serious grey eyes fixed on Thorin. “I’ve come ta tell ye somethin’. Somethin’ tha’ might come as a bit of a shock. But it will happen an’ I thought it best if ye hear it straight from me.”

Motioning a hand for the warrior to continue Thorin made the effort to draw his gaze back from Dwalin’s lips to his grey eyes.

“I have asked Onnhild ta marry me. She has said yes.”

Thorin felt as if the ground had suddenly dropped away under him. “I beg your pardon?” He managed no more than a croak.

Dwalin’s expression was carefully composed. “Ye know I’ve often wondered why Mahal would pair us, ye an’ I? I love pebbles and dwarflin’s, always have, an’ fer a long time I could not fathom why I should be paired with a dwarf an’ not a dam, an’ be robbed of the chance ta become a father. When Víli died an’ we helped Dís raise Fíli an’ Kíli I thought tha’ was the reason, fer I could not have been a substitute father fer them the way I was had I sired ma own offspring. An’ Onnhild ... well, I’d never thought tha’ could happen. But it did. We have Onnwin. An’ ever since I found out about him a bit over twelve years ago I’ve done a lot of thinkin’. I cannot help but question whether it was meant ta happen, so that I would eventually see a way out.”

“A way out?” Thorin could not keep the alarm out of his voice and felt his brows sink into a heavy frown. What in Durin’s name was Dwalin talking about?

Deep grey eyes met his solemnly. “Aye, a way out from a relationship where I constantly feel I have ta prove ma worth an’ yet it never seemed quite enough. These past two years have shown me tha’ I cannot live ma life like tha’ any longer. Tha’ it is time fer me ta walk away.”

“Walk away?” Thorin’s mind was spinning. “You cannot walk away. We are One! You cannot walk away from your One!” _What a ridiculous notion!_

Taking a deep breath Dwalin’s face remained determinedly emotionless. “Mahal had set us on a path, Thorin, with all its trials, an’ we walked it, together, refusin’ ta back down. On tha’ path I followed ye from Erebor ta Khazad-dum, from Khazad-dum ta Ered Luin, from Ered Luin ta the Shire. An’ all the way ta Erebor once more. Our love grew from friendship, Thorin, an’ now it has ended. We will always be sharin’ a soul and I will always be loyal to you, but ma heart now belongs ta another.”

“Onnhild? She’s had her own One, and has lost him. I would have thought she of all people would know that Ones should not be separated! Why would she allow you to put her before me?” Thorin realized he was shouting but he really couldn’t care less. Let the entire mountain hear his quarrel with his One! Let everyone know Dwalin was Thorin’s and not _Onnhild’s_.

Dwalin did not rise to the challenge, however, and kept his voice calm. “Aye, she has been rather vehemently encouragin’ me not ta give up hope. She was sure ye’d find yer way back ta me. Tha’ ye would come an’ bare yerself ta me. It has not happened, ta her dismay almost as much as ta mine. She knows well the pain tha’ goes with losin’ a One, ye are right in tha’. She did not want tha’ fer me.”

“Surely you would not compare me to Onnhild? Don’t you see the difference between her and I?” Onnhild’s One died, but Thorin was right here. And they did not hold the same space inside of Dwalin. They could not.

“The difference?” Dwalin’s brows drew together. “Aye, I see the difference. One is ma soulmate, the other ma companion. One is a choice, the other is not. Whatever reason Mahal had ta pair me with ye, Thorin, I believe he’s also had a reason ta have ma path cross with Onnhild. She’s not ma One, tha’s true. But I’ve come ta love her all the same. It’s not the fierce and burnin’ passion we shared at a time, Thorin, but it is true an’ steady, an’ it is good fer the both of us. We are lovers now, an’ give each other what we need. Care, compassion an’ peace.”

Thorin put a hand over his face, trying to stop the war-rams racing around in his head. “Mahal, you cannot seriously tell me you love her? I do not believe you.”

Dwalin looked at him calmly and shrugged. “Why not? She’s a good dam, an’ a good mother. An’ aye, I have fallen in love with her. She cares fer ma wellbein’ like no-one ever has, an’ lets me care fer hers in turn, thankin’ me fer it, appreciatin’ me and everythin’ I do. I’ve not had it this way, ever, Thorin, and I’ll not give it up.”

“But I want you! I need you!” Thorin went behind his desk and ripped the lid of trunk open almost violently. Reaching inside he lifted out the precious items inside, depositing them on the desk with more vigor than necessary. The black fur, the axes, the pouch of Old Toby. “I’ve made these. I’ve got these. For you! They are for you. My courting gifts.” Thorin tipped the Mithril bead from its velvety pouch into his hand, holding it out to Dwalin. “My bead. To prove my love for you.”

Dwalin closed his eyes briefly and slowly shook his head with a deep sigh. “Aye, I figured ye’ve planned somethin’, with the looks ye’ve been givin’ me over these past few months. But it is too late. I’ve moved on.”

“Moved on? I’ve planned a picnic! I’ve planned a speech, for Mahal’s sake.” Thorin truly felt as if he was going hysterical.

“It’s been two years, Thorin,” Dwalin said quietly, his eyes sad. “Two long years. Ye’ve not once come ta meet ma boy. Ye’ve not once spoken ta Onnhild. Not joined us fer dinner. Not invited Onnwin ta sit on yer throne or hold Orcrist or any of the million things ye could have done ta endear yerself ta the lad. Ye’ve not once come ta spar with me. Ye’ve not joined us when we went ta Dís fer tea, or ta Dale fer the day. Ye could have come ta feed apples ta the ponies or spit into the forge from the high balcony or visit the ravens on Ravenhill. I’d not even have expected an apology or a speech or anythin’ ... I’d have been happy if ye would have wanted ta spend time with me an’ ma boy, who means the world ta me, surely ye know tha’. But ye could not bring yerself ta do even tha’.”

“I want to give you the world!” Thorin bellowed. “I want to love you more than Erebor itself!”

Dwalin hummed, standing tall and proud, shoulders straight and unbending. The Dwalin of old would have his hackles raised by now. But this new, calm Dwalin showed a quiet strength in his eyes, one Thorin never had seen before. “Thorin, ye will never be able ta set anyone above Erebor. An’ the world ... I don’t want the world. But I _need_ steadiness ... an’ someone who deems me worthy of their trust.”

Thorin heart ached with shock and grief, every word from his Kurdel like a hammerblow to the groin. “You would be Royal Consort of Erebor,” he whispered, rubbing at his chest, where his heart ached.

“Always been a most terrifyin’ thought,” Dwalin gave a humourless chuckle. “It never bothered me overmuch ta work behind the scenes ta make ma King’s life easier. Tha’ will not change. But I don’t care fer a life in the public eye, I’m of much more use ta ye behind the scenes.” He looked at Thorin calmly, evenly, only a small, sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There will be no fallout for ye, as none but our closest family have known of our connection. As we never bonded officially there is no need ta rescind anythin’ …”

Thorin could count on one hand how often a bond between Ones was rescinded in the long centuries of Khazâd history. The circumstances were always questionable and they were always _questioned_ , dividing the public opinion of their time and throwing the respective families into turmoil. Aye, Dwalin was right in that regards: if they had bonded and were to separate, the backlash would be tremendous. Yet, as it were ...

 _I’ve moved on. I need steadiness. I don’t want the world. She cares for my wellbeing. We give each other what we need. I’ll not give this up._ Thorin felt himself stagger as Dwalin’s words bounced and echoed in his head.

“I thought I had your heart,” he heard himself whisper. “That my promise of Intent and Devotion would be enough for you to believe my love. How could you doubt me like that?”

Dwalin sighed deeply. “Oh, Thorin. I’ve never doubted tha‘ a part of ye loves me. But I do doubt yer devotion, have doubted it fer a long time. I am not a clingy dwarf, Thorin, but even I need a few signs of being truly wanted. Truly cared for. A bead I have ta keep hidden is not … it’s not enough fer me, Thorin. It may have been, at a time. An‘ fer the longest time after I have told maself it is enough, and maybe it was. But not anymore.”

Thorin swayed slightly on his feet, feeling dizzy. He took in the warrior before him, who looked at him with concern, but the cautious distance in his eyes was undeniable. “Please, give me a chance to prove you wrong.” He was pleading, he knew it.

The Dwalin slowly and cautiously stepped closer and lifted a heavy hand to grasp Thorin’s neck. “Ma deep affection fer ye is unbroken, an’ will be fer all eternity. But I cannot forgive yer actions in the Throne Room, nor yer attitude the weeks prior. Nor can I overlook many instances before tha’ where ye made it clear tha’ ma opinions don’t matter ta ye. It’s all a nigglin’, burnin’ pain inside of me tha’ makes me ill. It has taken me a long time ta confess ta maself tha’ I’ve never really believed ye would indeed bond with me one day. Ma position was never secure, One or not. And these past two years ye’ve shown a disregard fer me and ma needs … it nearly killed me, Thorin, I cannot allow it any longer tha’ ye torment me so.” Dwalin’s voice was thick. He gently brought their foreheads together. Tears shone in the corners of his eyes. “A part of me will always love ye, Thorin. Half of me will always be yers. But I cannot spend ma life with ye. It would destroy me. I wish ye well, my Kurkel, an’ I hope tha’ one day we’ll manage ta spend time together without hurtin’ each other.” Dwalin’s warm breath washed over Thorin’s face and they stood together for a moment.

Then Dwalin pressed a lingering kiss on his forehead, gave a light squeeze with his hand, turned and left the room without a glance back.

Thorin felt his heart still beating in his chest, but the echo of his Kurdel’s part of his soul was now truly gone, crushed to dust by his own failings, his own prideful foolishness.

Just like in his dream.

Thorin had felt cold for seemingly endless months.

Or so he thought.

Only now he realized that he had been feeling tepid at worst, because at this moment he was positively freezing, inside and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurkel – Raven of all Ravens, endearment
> 
> Yep. Well. Sorry if there are hearts broken now. But I feel this outcome is the best one. While Thorin has made a turnaround I do not think he'd be able to completely shake off his old ways. His downfall in the end is that he underestimates the strength of Dwalin's feelings for his son, that he thinks a sorry after two years in limbo is enough, that Dwalin ever cared about being in a position of power and that Dwalin's loyalty would work both ways, not just for Thorin, but definitely also for Onnhild.  
> According to Tolkien Dwalin was 340 years old when he died. An unhappy Dwalin would not have lived that long me thinks. A content, happy, cared for Dwalin well might. And I quite like thinking of Dwalin as content, happy and cared for, thank you very much :)

**Author's Note:**

> Having a relationship with Thorin would be immensely difficult, at least that's what I would imagine. Not only because he's the King of Durin's folk, exile or not, but also because of his rather complex personality. I do think Dwalin is a little bit easier, even if he has a temper. The scene in the movie where Dwalin confronts Thorin in the throne room before the battle obviously was the inspiration for this story. Because Thorin was thoroughly terrible then, and I do wonder if Dwalin would ever get over that if they were in a relationship.  
> Anyway, enjoy reading, and let me know what you think :)
> 
> As always, I’m using dwarf and dwarves for the males and dwarrow for the race as a whole.  
> Onnhild - using Estonian Onni happiness and Germanic hield battle  
> Onneleid - Estonian: good luck  
> Fourscore - 80
> 
> All Khuzdul from the dwarrowscholar and my own linguistic wranglings inspired by his website.  
> Kurdel - Heart of Hearts  
> bibil’urs - lit. bibil – bronze, ‘urs – fire, aka whisky  
> ‘Unhabul’ukhzad - ‘unhabul - most heroic, ‘ukhzad - greatest dwarf  
> Khazâd - dwarrow  
> Gabilzahar - lit. ‘greatest home’, ancestral hall and capital of the Stiffbeards  
> Amad - mother  
> shamurâl - lit. ‘those that are guardians’, shieldbrothers


End file.
